What strikes 'em as a heap pecooliar is that thar's no bones or horns.

Two or three of the hoofs is kickin' about, an' Enright picks up one the coyotes overlooks.

It shows it's been cut off at the fetlock j'int by a knife.
"'This spectre,' says Enright, passin' the hoof to Peets, 'packs a bowie; an' he likewise butchers his prey.

Also, ondoubted, he freights the meat off some'ers to his camp, which is why we don't notice no big bones layin' 'round loose.' Then Enright scans the grass mighty scroopulous; an' shore enough! thar's plenty of pony tracks printed into the soil.

'That don't look so soopernacheral neither,' says Enright, p'intin' to the hoof-prints.
"'Them's shorely made by a flesh an' blood pony,' says Peets.