“I t’ought he follow,” stammered Cruzatte, who was quite sick. “I no see heem. My gracious! Mebbe he in brush.”
“Pshaw!” muttered the captain. Then he spoke energetically. “I must have those saddle-bags. They’re of the utmost importance. Fields (and he addressed Reuben), you’re pretty fit. Take a horse and another man and go clear back to where we loaded the meat this morning. That’s likely where the animal strayed, while we halted. Look for his tracks and find him. Be sure and get the saddle-bags, in all events. Their contents are valuable.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Reuben. He looked about him doubtfully. And Peter did an unexpected thing. Peter felt equal to any man. He was young and wiry; his life among the Otoes had accustomed him to all kinds of outdoor hardships. He had not had so much flesh and bones to carry as had the men; he had walked lightly and straight-footed, as Indians walked.
“Take me, Reuben,” he said. “I’m all right. I find the horse.”
“Faith,” supported Patrick Gass, “ye might do worse, Reub. Sure, the lad’s as good as the best.”
“If the captain has no objections——?” proffered Reuben, with a grin, “I think we’d make out first-rate.”
“An excellent plan,” agreed the captain. “Take Peter, by all means. He wants to do his part, and when it’s his turn to ride he’ll be easy on the horse. He’s a regular woodsman, too. Look to your laurels, Reuben.”
“Yes, sir,” grinned Reuben.
So they set off; Reuben, with his rifle, at first on the horse; Peter, with his bow and quiver, trotting alongside, holding to the saddle thongs. After a time, they changed off; Peter rode and Reuben walked.
They had left about three o’clock. It was dusk when they arrived at the noon camp spot, on the other side of the high ridge. Not even a bird had they seen, to kill for food. They had started in such a hurry that they had brought nothing. But the horse’s head was still lying here, untouched.