“I see tracks, Terry. Two men have been along here—white men, I judge; travellin’ down river.”
“Only two, you say?”
“Yes. Fresh tracks, just the same.”
They all looked, and found the fresh tracks of two men pointing eastward.
“I tell you! Those are the doctor and Brown hunting,” Terry proposed. “Wish they’d left some meat. But we may ketch ’em to-morrow. Even tracks are a godsend.”
They three had eaten nothing all day; there was nothing to eat, to-night. To Stub, matters looked rather desperate, again. Empty stomach and empty tracks and empty country, winter-bound, gave one a sort of a hopeless feeling. He and Freegift and Terry trudged and trudged and trudged, and hauled and shoved, and never got anywhere. For all they knew, they might be drawing farther and farther away from the lieutenant. But, as Terry said, “orders were orders.”
“Well, if we ketch the doctor he’ll be mighty interested in that head o’ yourn,” Freegift asserted, to Stub. “He’s been wantin’ to open it up, I heard tell; but mebbe that yaller hoss saved him the trouble.”
“He’ll not thank the hoss,” laughed Terry, grimly. “He’d like to have done the job himself! That’s the doctor of it.”
Stub privately resolved to show the doctor that there was no need of the “job,” now. He felt fine, and he was Jack Pursley.
Nothing occurred during the night; the false prairie of the big pocket remained uninvaded except by themselves. They lingered until about ten o’clock, hoping that the main party might come in.