No wonder the existence of a robber band was suspected; no wonder handsome Charles Danforth, doing nothing else than roaming in the gloomy forest, was suspected of conspiring with it; and what wonder that sweet Katie, who had rejected him the night before, should be in his toils?
And as Walter thought of these dark things, his blood surged and he felt the terrible pangs of the sickness of strength arising within him. Fear rolled on fear, and festered and grew sore; and his pangs were not a whit alleviated by the delay.
But it was of short duration. A hasty council was formed, questions were made and answered, the elders gave their sage advice, and they soon started off, with deadly rage hob-nobbing with fear.
Now Sol Jacobs was to be the bloodhound, i. e., the trailer. Once he had been famous for his skill in the high and subtle art, but he had not followed a trail for years. He was old, but still strong and spirited, and in the shooting-matches always carried off the prize. His old energy still remained staunch and his eyes were as keen as ever.
They started toward—where? They did not know. Then they went to the border of the forest, and began to look for the trail, the party dispersing for the purpose. They had not long to search, for they were singularly fortunate. They had not been scattered above five minutes when an exclamation was heard from Sol, who was bending and looking intently at something, being only a few rods from the cabin of Hans Winkler.
They hurried to the spot. Sol pointed to a set of tracks in some moist ground. One was that of a small boot, neatly shaped; the other that of a coarse shoe, large and flat. Both were pointing in the same direction—toward the forest, and by them he judged the parties must have been moving rapidly.
“Wal, boys,” said Sol, “ef I ain’t mistaken, hyar’s the trail.”
“How do yer know that?” inquired a suspicious settler. “It mout not be the one we’re after.”
“Wal, but yer see it air!” returned Sol, a trifle nettled. “Bekase why? why thar’s only one man in the settlement that wears such a boot, and he is that Danforth. See, it’s trim and neat—a store boot. All ye fellers wears coarse ones, or rather moccasins. Every feller hyar knows that boot-mark, don’t yer? And then t’other; that thar is bigger and flatter—more like some of yer all’s. I’m cussed ef I know who it b’longs ter—darn me ef I hain’t. I don’t believe thar’s a man in the whole settlement that’s got a shoe like that. Wal, it makes nary difference—Danforth’s the man we’re after, and Danforth’s the man we’ll find, whether he’s guilty or not guilty. Them yer sentiments, boys?”
“You bet! Ay, ay! go on!” and many others were the exclamations by which he was answered.