“See anything?” Foxhound asked.

It was a joke between them. Foxhound had no need for a spyglass. His keen eyes never missed a thing, neither near nor far. He read nature like other people read books. A cropped piece of grass, an overturned leaf, a displaced pebble—all told a story that only he could interpret. It was a skill Chase had come to value and admire.

Chase closed the spyglass with a snap. “I’d say those hombres are long gone by now.”

Foxhound dropped to his haunches, his sharp eyes focused on the mottled ground. Though he favored the usual cowboy uniform of California pants and bib-front shirts, he still preferred his flat-soled moccasins to the rawhide boots worn by Chase and the rest of his men.

“Looks like there were three of ’em,” Foxhound said, pointing. “Two in high-heeled boots, one in low.”

Chase followed Foxhound’s finger, but all he saw were cattle tracks. “How long ago?”

Foxhound straightened and narrowed his gaze to the distance. “I’d say six, maybe eight hours ago. Since it’s just the two of us, we could probably catch them in half that time.”

“You said there were three of them,” Chase said and swatted away a fly.

Foxhound grinned. “Sounds like a fair fight to me.” He studied his boss. “So, what’s the plan?”

Chase lifted his hat and swiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand. “Let’s follow the trail a piece. Maybe you can pick up another clue or two. Somethin’ we can give the sheriff.”

Laughing, Foxhound shook his head.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.” Foxhound gave him a knowing look. “Wasn’t that long ago you said that no woman could change you. Here, you’ve only been married what? A couple of weeks, and already you’re a changed man.”

Chase settled his hat in place. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Time was that you would have followed those hombres to the four winds and back. It was only last year that you trailed the Davidson gang for days. We almost had to send a search party for you.”

Chase shuddered at the memory. “Yeah, well, maybe I learned my lesson.” For three days, he’d fought the wind, rain, and bitter cold. Still, the bad guys had gotten away. The last he’d heard, they were still creating havoc on the other side of the border. “My trackin’ days are over.”

“Maybe,” Foxhound said, clearly unconvinced. “Or maybe you just don’t want to give up that soft bed of yours in your lady’s arms.”

Chase spun around and headed for his horse. He didn’t want to talk about a soft bed. And he sure in blazes didn’t want to discuss Emily or her arms.

“Let’s get goin’. Time’s a-wastin.’”

“As you wish, Nugvwayusadegi.”

Chase shook his head. In the Cherokee language, even a four-letter word like boss was a mouthful.

They rode in silence for an hour, stopping on occasion to allow Foxhound to dismount and check the ground. Squatting, he’d poke at a turd with a stick or check the remains of an old campfire.