"That's about where those fellows ran," said Farwell. "Maybe the old rascal can trail, after all."
Simon came to a halt at a spot cut up by hoofs. He bent down, examining the tracks carefully. Farwell, doing likewise, caught sight of a single moccasin track plainly outlined. It lay, long and straight-footed, deep in the soft soil; and where the big toe had pressed there was the mark of a sewn-in patch.
"Here, look here!" he cried. "One of 'em was wearing moccasins, and patched moccasins at that."
"Sure enough," said Keeler.
"Here, Simon, look at this," said the engineer. "You see um? One cultus man wear moccasin. Was he white man or Indian?"
Simon surveyed the track gravely, knelt, and examined it minutely. "Mebbyso Injun," he said.
"Mebbyso white man," Farwell objected. "What makes you think it's an Indian?"
"Oleman moccasin, him," Simon replied oracularly. "White man throw him away; Injun keep him, mend him—mamook tipshin klaska."
"Something in that, too," Farwell agreed. "It's a straight foot—no swing-in to the toe. Still, I don't know. I've seen white men like that. I wonder——" He broke off abruptly, shaking his head.
Simon gave a correct imitation of mounting a horse. "Him klatawa," he announced. "Him Injun."