Devine gazed into the shadows, but he saw nothing beyond the rows of dusky trunks.
“Where’s he gone?”
“That,” said Weston, “is naturally just what I don’t know. It’s up to us to find out.”
Then he briefly related his conversation with Grenfell, and the two looked at each other. There was just light enough to show the anxiety in their faces.
“Well,” said Devine, “it’s quite clear to me that he’s on the trail; and it’s fortunate in one way that he’s left a plain trail behind him. Whether the whole thing’s a delusion on his part, or whether he did strike that lode, I don’t know, but I didn’t like the man’s looks yesterday. He seemed badly played out, and it kind of struck me he was just holding on.” He turned toward the pack-horse and pulled up the picket. “Anyway, we’ll get upon his trail.”
They both were men of action, and inside of five minutes they had lashed their packs together and started without breakfast. Weston led the horse, while Devine picked up Grenfell’s trail. Weston was a little astonished at the ease with which his companion did this.
“It’s quite simple,” said the surveyor, when the other stopped a moment where the footprints seemed to break off, and questioned his decision. “He’s heading straight on, and not walking like a man with much strength in him. I wish I knew just how far he is ahead of us.” Then he added in explanation: “I went east for a while, but I was raised in this country, and this is ’way easier than trailing a deer.”
They went on a little faster after that, for Devine had promptly picked up the trail again, and by the time the red sun had cleared the range it led them out of the brûlée and into a waste of rock and gravel, where there were smaller firs and strips of tangled undergrowth. Here and there Devine stopped for a few minutes, but he found the trail again, though it led them through thickets, and now and then they floundered among half-rotten fallen trunks and branches. Fortunately, the horse was a Cayuse and used to that kind of work.
It rapidly grew hotter, until the perspiration streamed from them, and Weston, who had eaten very little the previous evening, became conscious of an unpleasant stitch in his side; but they pushed on without flagging, urged by a growing anxiety. At length the ground, which was a little clearer, rose sharply in front of them. Weston pulled up the pack-horse and looked significantly at Devine, who nodded.
“Yes,” he assented, “he said a low divide. The lake lay just beyond it.”