“Fellows,” he shouted, “whar do you reckon Redman got thar mar’? You know—”
“Yes, I know,” interrupted Duke. “We thought Tom Mason stole her, but it seems he didn’t. If we don’t see her again, it will be your fault.”
Our fellow began to stir about in earnest now, and I thought it was high time, for my teeth were chattering, and I was so cold I could scarcely speak.
When you remember that it was midwinter, that I was as wet as a drowned rat, and that a fierce north wind was blowing, you will readily perceive that my situation was far from being a pleasant one.
I would have been glad of the privilege of standing before a roaring fire for a few minutes, and would thankfully have accepted a suit of dry clothes; but if I went home I would lose the opportunity of taking part in the pursuit of Luke Redman, and that was something I could not think of.
When we had all become so impatient that it did not seem possible we could wait an instant longer, Sandy came across the bayou with the horses, and in a few seconds more we were all in the saddle and flying through the swamp on Luke Redman’s trail.
Sandy saw by our looks that the delay of which he was the cause had tried our patience severely, and he hastened to apologize for it.
“Fellers,” said he, “I may be slow a-talkin’ an’ a-walkin’, but I am not slow a-ridin’.”
And so we found it. He took the lead at once, and conducted the pursuit with a degree of energy that was surprising. For five miles his horse never broke a gallop; and when at last he drew rein on the bluffs above Dead Man’s Elbow, we were willing to vote him the most reckless rider we had ever followed.
Perhaps you will wonder what plan Sandy adopted in conducting the pursuit, and how he knew whether or not he was following Luke Redman’s trail. I can explain it in a few words.