“True, unless they do not suspect that they are being followed.”
“Have you any idea where this road leads to?”
“Probably around the mountains and then westward, but not within ten miles of the trail we shall follow.”
They talked the matter over and concluded to follow the road for another mile or two, and set off on the fastest walk they could command. It was a shale road, dry, firm, and even, and they covered the distance quickly. But neither Indians nor horses appeared anywhere.
“We may as well give it up, Dave,” said Joseph Morris at last, as he sank down on a rock to rest. “They have got a good start and to catch them on foot is plainly out of the question.”
“Poor Fanny!” murmured the youth, sadly. “I don’t care so much for that new horse, but I did love the little mare.”
“Yes, it’s too bad, lad, too bad truly. But it’s done, and there is small comfort in weeping over it. We may as well go back. I know you are tired, but if we don’t go back now, we’ll have to walk all the way to Caspar’s place.”
They listened, there in the depth of the mountain woods, but the only sound that reached their ears was the rain as it dripped down on the rocks. They rested a little while, then turned back, each with a heavy heart and much discouraged.
“We didn’t gain much on the trip after all,” was Dave’s comment. “The horses are worth much more than those pelts we picked up.”
“True, Dave, but it can’t be helped. And you mustn’t forget that bee tree. That’s worth something.”