“And alone!” cry the rest, gloomily.
The guide was coming slowly, his mustang lagging with drooping head, as if just freed from a hard, long ride. The guide, too, though generally reserved, was moody, and wore a sort of apologetic, shame-faced air.
Joel Wheeler and young Carpenter sprung to meet him.
“Have you seen her?” asked Mr. Wheeler, though knowing the question was a superfluous one. The guide shook his head.
“Nor any trace of her?” hastily added Carpenter. Simpson slowly shook his head again.
“Not at all—no sign?”
“Nary mark, sign, trail, trace—nary nuthin’. Blast the luck!” he added, in sudden ire; “I’ve done rode over every squar’ inch of this kentry sence last night, fur miles around. She ain’t nowhar ’round hyar, that’s sartain shure.”
It was only too evident the guide spoke truthfully. His fatigued, travel-worn steed, panting deeply, and his own wearied air, showed he had ridden far and swiftly.
“Yer see’d no one, then?” asked Burt Scranton.
“Who sed I never see’d no one?” hastily retorted Simpson.