Frank did not glance over his shoulder to see if the others were following. He thought of nothing but the human game he was after. Would the wretch secure such a start that it would not be possible to overtake him?
“No!” came through Frank’s set teeth. “I will run him down!”
Round the clump of bushes he guided the horse, and then cut down through the valley toward the spot where he had seen the unknown horseman riding into the timber.
Over the stream leaped the horse, up the slope he galloped, and the timber was reached. Then Frank found the very spot where the man’s horse had been hidden, and he struck the trail of the murderous-minded rascal.
Now, Eastern boy and Yale student though he was, Frank Merriwell had followed at the heels of the best trailers in this country. He had seen them work, and he had studied their methods, becoming a fairly expert trailer himself.
At first what he discovered puzzled him. The tracks of the horse showed quite plainly on the soft ground, but the marks of the shoes did not seem to indicate that the animal had gone toward the timber.
“I saw him!” muttered Frank. “It was no optical delusion.”
Then he got down on his knees, holding on to the bridle of his horse, and examined the tracks still more closely. An exclamation broke from his lips.
“Queer horse that! Never heard of a horse walking on his heels before!”
A moment later he sprang into the saddle and was away, but he was riding in a direction precisely opposite that which it seemed the horse had gone!