“I am not worrying about that yet, Roger,” returned our hero, grimly. “We have got to catch Porton first.”
“Oh, I know that. But if he started for Bixter on foot we ought to be able to locate him. A stranger can’t go through such a small place without somebody’s noticing it.”
On and on trotted the horse, past many well-kept farms, and then through a small patch of timber land. Beyond the woods they crossed a frozen creek, and then made a turn to the northward. A short distance beyond they came in sight 64 of the first houses that went to make up the village of Bixter.
“Well, we’ve not seen anything of him yet,” remarked the senator’s son, as they slowed up and looked ahead and to both sides of the village street.
“No, and I don’t understand it,” returned Dave. “From what that carpenter’s helper said, I thought we should overtake him before we got to Bixter. Either he must have left this road, or else he must be some walker.”
“I don’t see where he could have gone if he left the road, Dave. All we passed were lanes leading to the farms, and a path through that wood. It isn’t likely he would take to the woods in this cold weather––not unless he was going hunting, and that chap back in Clayton didn’t say anything about his carrying a gun.”
With the horse in a walk, they passed down the village street and back again. As they did this they kept their eyes wide open, peering into the various yards and lanes that presented themselves.
“I’m afraid it’s no use unless he is in one of these houses or in one of the stores,” was Roger’s comment.
“I’ll ask at the stores,” returned Dave.
The inquiries he and his chum made were productive of no results so far as locating Ward 65 Porton was concerned. No one had seen or heard of the former moving picture actor.