“Louis signaled for a halt. I don’t know why.”
Moved by curiosity, Walter followed Neil and Raoul to the spot where the horsemen had reined in. It did not need the Scotch boy’s exclamation or Louis’ sober face to make Walter understand the seriousness of what they had found. They had come upon a trail, a clear, distinct trail. It was not the wide, trampled track of a buffalo herd, but the clearly defined, narrow trail of horses single file.
“Indians?” asked Walter, though he knew well enough that the question was unnecessary.
Neil answered with a grunt of assent. Louis, leading his horse, had gone on a little farther. In a moment he turned and summoned the others. He had come upon a parallel trail, somewhat wider and more irregular than the first and marked with lines resembling wheel tracks, but not so wide as those made by the broad-rimmed cart wheels.
“Travois,” he said briefly. “Heavily loaded.”
Walter had heard the word travois before in the sense in which Louis used it. It was the name the French Canadians had given to a primitive Indian conveyance, two poles lashed to the sides of a horse or dog, the front ends resting on the animal’s shoulders, the rear ends trailing on the ground. Cross pieces were tied on, and a hide or blanket stretched between the poles. Travois were loaded with household goods, or carried women too old and children too young to walk or ride horseback. The crude vehicles were used everywhere by the prairie Indians.
A little farther on was another similar trail, and beyond it a fourth, a narrow horse track like the first.
“A whole band,” Louis concluded, “women and children and all. When I saw that first trail I feared it was a war party of mounted men only.”
“They are traveling as if in enemy country,” Neil commented, “in four lines, instead of single file.”
“With the travois and women in the middle, and the braves on the outside,” added Louis. “Yes, they must be uneasy about something.”