She hoped she would never see the squalid, bare pretension of a ranch again.
Colter and the other riders drove the pack horses across the meadow, off of the trails, and up the slope into the forest.

Not very long did it take Ellen to see that Colter's object was to hide their tracks.

He zigzagged through the forest, avoiding the bare spots of dust, the dry, sun-baked flats of clay where water lay in spring, and he chose the grassy, open glades, the long, pine-needle matted aisles.

Ellen rode at their heels and it pleased her to watch for their tracks.

Colter manifestly had been long practiced in this game of hiding his trail, and he showed the skill of a rustler.