All now bade our friends farewell, and they made their way cautiously out of the block-house. By this time the sun was just appearing above the edge of the forest, and they hurried forward upon their dangerous duty.
The trail was immediately taken, and pursued with the most unwearying assiduity. Kingman, whose border experience had toughened his sinews and strengthened his muscle, was unwilling to pause for more than a moment’s rest. The great fear that his beloved was in the power of the renegade Johnson, was too tormenting to allow a moment’s rest.
In a few hours they reached the spot where the fugitives had encamped. A brief examination revealed the gratifying fact that they were all comparatively a slight distance ahead, although there was no question but that they were proceeding quite rapidly.
With this was made a startling and dreaded discovery—a white man was one of the captors. Such being the case it could be no other than Johnson the renegade.
“Merciful heavens!” exclaimed Kingman, in agony. “We must soon overtake them or it will be too late.”
“You’re too excited,” said Moffat, to whom the same question could be applied. “You’re too excited. Take things coolly.”
“But how can I? How much longer is that man to desolate the frontier?”
“I have an idea that he has run about the length of his rope. I somehow or other feel as though we were going to wipe him out.”
“God grant it!” fervently exclaimed Kingman. “He has earned his death over and over again for the last dozen years.”
An hour or two later Moffat announced that they were rapidly gaining upon the captors, and if they continued progressing as they were evidently doing at that time, the probabilities were that they would be overtaken by nightfall, or sooner.