His knowledge was impressive, but his willingness to share the information with her, as if she was an equal, meant even more. “Anything else?”
“The man’s horse has a loose shoe. Right hind. He headed toward the Mesquite.”
“So the shooter is one of Slade’s men?” She exhaled and said a silent prayer of thanks.
“Possibly. We can only know he went that direction.” Chisholm wiped his brow with a blue kerchief. “I found a shell casing from his rifle, but nothing else. The trail ended when the shooter went across that rocky area.”
“So we can’t follow them farther?” She shielded her eyes to scan the area. “Wouldn’t his trail begin again on the other side of those rocks?”
Chisholm looked at Whit and frowned. “Probably, but we’re taking you home before we look further. It’s too dangerous. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”
If she left, she couldn’t be sure Ricardo hadn’t been involved, so she hurried to her horse and quickly mounted. “The sun will set before you get back, and I want to see more of your excellent tracking skills. I will be careful and do as you say.”
Whit chuckled and followed her lead, but she heard grumbling from Chisholm about doubting she’d do as he or anyone else said. He was most likely correct.
They headed up a hill, and he rode beside her, still grousing. She smiled in his direction. She needed him to believe she would keep her word, but he didn’t return a grin. Too bad. She’d grown rather fond of his dimples.
Her cheeks warmed. How had Chisholm gotten her to thinking fondly about him or his dangerous dimples? She needed to focus on the task at hand and make sure this man left the area before she found herself admiring more about him than his dimples.
Whit reined Buckshot in and let out a low whistle. “Well, look at that.”
Chapter Five
Chisholm’s jaw tensed. Cattle grazed in the valley below them, trampling any hopes of following the shooter’s tracks. Five cowboys rode lazily around the herd. Could one of them be the shooter?
Whit patted his pinto’s neck. “Do you want to go speak with those men or just head back?”
“Let’s go talk to them. Maybe they saw something.” Chisholm led the group down the hill, but stopped well away from the ornery longhorns.
One of the cowboys approached on horseback, his rifle across his lap. Chisholm guessed the man to be in his forties. His crooked nose and the scar on his cheek said he didn’t mind a good fight. His worn Stetson told Chisholm the man was no stranger to the range. The man seemed to zero in on Chisholm’s badge and dipped his head slightly. “I’m Digger Harrison, range boss of the Mesquite. What can I do for y’all?”
“A man shot at us from up on that hill, then took off.” Chisholm eyed the weapon Digger carried. A range boss would have an excellent aim. “Seen anyone riding through?”
“We saw a Mexican about an hour ago.” Digger jabbed the rifle into the scabbard.
Chisholm slipped a glance toward Caro. “How do you know he was a Mexican?”
“Sombrero.” He looked at Caro. “Probably that one she was protecting the other day. You should have let us lynch him.”
Caro’s face reddened. “Other cowboys wear sombreros!”
“I know, Caro. Take it easy.” Chisholm turned back toward the foreman. “Did you notice anything else? The direction the man rode off perhaps?”
He nodded toward the Mesquite Ranch. “Probably went that way to throw you off.”
Whit cleared his throat. “What about your wranglers?”
Digger leveled a gaze at Whit. “Been here all day.”
Caro grabbed her saddle horn and leaned forward. “You’d swear to that? On a Bible?”
The man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Crazy woman, you calling me a liar?”
“Mind your tongue, Harrison, and she didn’t call you anything.” Chisholm nudged his horse between them. “We’ll be going now. Thanks for the information, and if you see anything else, send word to the Walking Diamond. We’re staying there.”
“Watch your back, Rangers,” Digger added, then turned to leave. “This country can be pretty unfriendly to folks who go poking around—especially with the likes of her by your side.”
For the next half an hour of their ride, emotions fired inside Chisholm. Fury at the man’s veiled threat directed toward Caro. Anger at her for stirring things up. Frustration at losing the trail and at the lack of answers, and gnawing concern that Ricardo might indeed be involved. Why had Digger suggested that having Caro around was dangerous? He knew about how she’d stopped the lynching, but had her outspoken tendencies caused trouble before?
He rubbed the crick in the back of his neck and swept the area for danger once again. Maybe they should abandon the road?