"How far?"
"Two miles; possibly less," answered Whitby.
"I 'll get him," said Hopalong, with quiet certitude. "So long, Buck."
"So long, Hoppy. Go with him, Whit. Can't afford another ambush."
"Very well, Buck. You will find a medicine-chest in my kit, Miss McAllister."
Whitby turned and rode hard after Hopalong who, nevertheless, arrived at the dead pony considerably in advance, and after a searching look around, rode straight to the ambush. The signs of its recent occupancy were plain to be seen. Hopalong got down and squatted under cover as Dave must have done, from which position his shrewd mind deduced the cause of the poor shot: a swinging limb, which had deflected the bullet at the critical moment. The signs showed Dave had led his horse from the spot, finally mounting and riding off in a direction well to the east of Wayback. Minute after minute Hopalong tracked at a slow canter; suddenly his pony sprang forward with a rush: even to the Englishman's inexperienced eyes there was evidence of Dave having gone faster; very much faster, Whitby thought, as he rode his best to hold the pace, wondering meanwhile, how it was possible to track at such speed. It was n't possible: Dave had set a straight line for Wayback and gone off like a jack rabbit. Hopalong was simply backing his guess.
Exhaustive inquiries in Wayback seemed to show that Hoppy had guessed wrong. No one had seen Dave. No one had seen Schatz, either; the bank president had gone to Helena and his single clerk, single in a double sense, was an unknown number of miles distant on a journey in courtship. The station agent declared Dave had neither purchased a ticket nor taken any train from the Wayback station. Whitby became downcast but Hopalong, with each fruitless inquiry, gathered cheerfulness almost to loquacity. It was his way. "Cheer up, Whit," he encouraged: "I'd 'a' been punchin' cows an' dodgin' Injuns in th' Happy Hunting Grounds before I could rope a yearlin' if I 'd allus give up when I was beat."
Whitby looked at him gloomily. "I 'm fair stumped," he admitted. "D' you think, now, it would be wisdom to go back and follow his spoor?"
"Spoor is good. He came to Wayback, Whit, sure as yo 're a bloomin' Britisher. Keep a-lookin' at me, now: There 's a bum over by th' barber's has been watchin' us earnest ever since we hit town; he 's stuck to us like a shadow; see if you know him. Easy, now. Don't scare him off."
Whitby won his way into Hopalong's heart by the simplicity of his manoeuvre. Taking from his lips the cigar he was smoking, he waved it in the general direction of the station. "You said a bum near the barber-shop," he repeated. His pony suddenly leaped into the air and manifested an inexplicable and exuberant interest in life. When quieted, Whitby was facing the barber's and carefully examining the bum. Hopalong chuckled through serious lips. Whitby had allowed the hot end of his cigar to come in contact with the pony's hide. "No, can't say I do; but he evidently knows me. Dashed if he does n't want me to follow him," and Whitby looked his astonishment.