Reasoning with something like his usual coolness, the young rancher thought he saw the explanation of other matters which had puzzled him, but he bestowed little thought upon them, for his whole ambition for the time was to reach his parents.
The trail which they were following led toward the open prairie, left by Warren but a short time before. It was evident that Mr. Starr was making for that, for their animals could not serve them so long as they continued in this rough section.
"If I had been a little later," reflected the son, "I would have met them. That I did not proves that they cannot be far off."
He was tempted to call or whistle, but that would have been rash, for if there was any one point on which he was certain, it was that the hostiles were hot on the trail of Tim Brophy. The real peril was from that direction, and several times he reminded the Irishman of the fact, though he needed not the warnings.
A short distance farther and both stopped with an exclamation of dismay. The report of a weapon sounded from a point only a little way ahead.
"That was not a rifle," said Warren, turning his white face on his companion; "it was a pistol."
"Ye are corrict."
"And it was fired by father."
"I'm sure ye are right."
"They have been attacked! come on! They need our help!"