It would have been an easy matter then for Red Fox to have killed his captive and yet escape the other boy. But that was not his purpose. In his thirst to revenge the insult of Alf's words, he had quite forgotten Thunder-maker's commission and the coveted ermine robe. These were nothing to him now. He had listened to sneers with patience. The time had now come to repay the taunts with interest. He ran towards the pack-horse. A slash with his hunting-knife severed the rope within two or three feet of the halter. Alf was then thrown roughly across the animal's back, while the Indian was himself astride an instant afterwards. A vicious dig of the heels, and the horse sprang forward.
And the last that Bob saw as he reached the tent was an ugly face grinning at him and an arm waving tauntingly as horse, rider, and burden disappeared into the woods.
Arnold was aghast!
He rushed into the tent and snatched up his repeating rifle, which was already loaded; by the time he emerged again he could only hear the distant sound of the fugitive rider pressing the branches through the bush track.
He ran forwards at top speed, but he knew well that unless some accident befell the horse he stood a poor chance of being able to aid his chum. The Indian would know the bush as well as his namesake fox. He would not be likely to take any risk that would imperil his safety or blight any evil purpose that he might harbour.
The boy followed the track, which was well marked. It was the same course that had been taken by Mackintosh and Haggis earlier in the day. For a time it led through an avenue of trees. Then it branched off to the left, where the ground was hard-packed and dry, having been stripped of vegetation by a bush fire earlier in the year. Here the tracks were less easy to follow, for a steady breeze was blowing, and the imprints of the hoofs were covered almost as quickly as they were made.
It was heart-breaking to have to slacken speed at such a time, when every second might mean disaster to his chum. But what else could he do? And when ultimately the tracks led him to the border of a vast marshland, the lad was obliged to halt in what was almost despair.
"What is to be done now?" he exclaimed to himself. "Poor old Alf! What a fool I was not to be prepared for such a rascal, when once my suspicions were so roused!"
But it was no use sitting down in hopelessness. Such weakness would have nothing to gain and everything to lose. So Bob pulled himself together, as the apt saying has it, and racked his brains to meet the occasion.
Not a sound could he now hear to indicate which way the fugitive had taken. Moreover, the tracks completely disappeared from sight when the boy had taken a few paces into the shallow water and spongy moss.