“What have you found, pard?” It was the voice of Buckhart, who had issued from the back door of the inn.
“Budthorne was struck down by men who had been concealed behind this little building,” said Dick. “They stepped out upon him as he stood here at the corner of the building, with his back turned in their direction. Aaron stood in front of him. They struck him with a sandbag, or some muffled weapon that did not cut his head.”
“How many of them were there?”
“Four. Three of them lifted and carried him toward the road, two holding his arms, while the third had his legs. The fourth chap, who was the leader, walked in advance. Three of them do not belong hereabouts, but the fourth, a heavy man with very big feet, belongs in the country.”
“Guid Lord!” whispered Aaron to himself, “how do he ken a’ that?”
Dick’s early training by the old Indian, Joe Crowfoot, was standing him in good stead now.
Holding the lantern low, Merriwell followed the tracks toward the road.
“It’s likely they carried him off in a carriage, partner,” said the Texan.
But when the highway was reached, where it seemed that the boy with the lantern could find nothing to guide him to any conclusions, Dick continued his search, seeming to pick out the trail amid the many imprints there.
“There was no carriage here,” said the lad with the lantern. “They still carried him in the original manner.”