“It was ther, plain as the nose on yer face. Come on, let’s go over an’ take a close squint at it. It may tell us a lot.”
Moving away from the river, and out onto the prairie, perhaps a hundred yards, they looked down on the broad trail of many unshod horses and marks of wagon wheels. There it was, clearly imprinted on the soft, prairie earth.
The trail could not speak, but still it was like a living thing. It lay silently before them, yet standing out on the brown soil, wide, vivid, and full of significance. It told the keen-eyed Bright Star and Bill Brown, the veteran scout, that here a white army had passed, many men, hundreds of them, heading hurriedly northward, up the river. This was the story the trail told.
“Gad, you are right, Brown,” admitted Van Alstyne, as his eyes beheld the tell-tale evidence. “A large force of men has gone this way.”
“And not long ago,” Tom Gordon declared. “The prints look fresh.”
“Mighty fresh,” nodded Brown. “I’d say that they was made this very mornin’.”
“I think I can offer a solution, Captain,” averred Lieutenant Clark, “as to who these men were.”
“I hope so, I hope so, Lieutenant. As far as I know, they may as well be men from Mars. I can see that there were a lot of them, and that they’ve churned up the earth like a herd of cattle; but as to their identity, there you have me.”
“Here’s my idea of it, sir,” went on Clark, pulling a map from his pocket. “You remember that Governor Reynolds, in his dispatches, said that a large number of volunteers would rendezvous at Beardstown. Now take a look at this map. Beardstown is some seventy-five miles due south of here. I think that this fresh trail was made by the Beardstown volunteers. Their scouts have brought them word that Black Hawk is moving northward, up the Rock River, and they are hot on his heels.”
“By George, Clark, that’s capital reasoning. At times I haven’t thought too highly of your ability, but I am beginning to believe that you will develop into a first-rate officer.”