He stepped down with one foot in the crack, and, keeping it there, walked slowly on, making it our guide, while I followed suit with another rut, or series of ruts, a short distance from the first.
“Only to follow them,” he whispered; “and they will lead us right to the wasps’ nest.”
We went on easily enough now, and very cautiously, with the soil growing softer and the ruts more deeply cut, as if several guns had passed along our way. Then I stopped, and went down on one knee to feel the ground.
“What is it?”
“The hoof-marks. They are very deep here,” I said excitedly, as my fingers traced the deep impressions one after the other, and close enough together for me to divine that many horses had passed.
“Well, yes,” he said impatiently; “they are here, of course. I noticed that some were crushed out by the wheel-tracks.”
“Yes,” I cried; “but we are going wrong; the hoof-marks are all coming this way.”