"Here he was, the skunk! Come on, now."
His trained eye making out the tracks, Norton followed. After five minutes they came out on Beargrass Creek, and on the opposite shore was no trail.
"Slipped us," cried Boone savagely. "Consarn him! He might ha' gone up or down, so let's git out o' here whilst our hides are safe."
Whereupon, the old woodsman turned and incontinently made for the horses, as did Norton. The assassin had had time to reload, and tracking him in the river bed was impossible. When they had regained the horses, Boone held out something to Norton.
"Find the feller who owns this, an' ye've got him. I reckon your errand has slipped out, friend."
Norton smiled faintly at the grim sarcasm in the old man's voice, and looked at the object. It was the plug of a powder-horn evidently dropped in haste. Finely carved in greyish horn, the stopper was crossed lengthwise by a band of red.
"You find a feller with a horn what's got a red streak in it," went on Boone, "and a wooden plug; he's wearin' Shawnee moccasins instead o' boots; he's left-handed, 'cause he rested his rifle that side o' the tree, an' I wouldn't wonder but what he was cross-eyed."
"Huh? Why cross-eyed?" queried Norton, frowning, and dropped the plug in his shirt.
"'Cause he didn't see me a-watchin' them trees," cackled the old man, and swung up to his saddle. "Now let's git away from here; it makes me plumb scared. What do you reckon ye'll do first off?"
"Take advice," smiled Norton easily. "All I can get. I fancy the pirates are in league with some one here, for they've dropped on the best cargoes and let the poor ones pass by. It looks as if they had spies here, sure enough."