"They know too much about shootin' for me to foller 'em any more," remarked the third man, running rapidly out of the road and in the shadow caused by a tree.
"They can't keep up that gait for ever," said Bill Braymer. "I'm goin' to foller 'em on foot, if it takes all night; I'll get even with em for that hoss they've done me out of."
"I'm with you, Bill," remarked Pete Williamson, "an' mebbe we can snatch their hosses, just to show'em how it feels."
The third man lifted up his voice. "I 'llow I've had enough of this here kind of thing," said he, "an' I'll get back to the settlement while there's anything for me to get there on. I reckon you'll make a haul, but—I don't care—I'd rather be poor than spend a counterfeiter's money."
And off he rode, just as the younger Williamson, with refreshed horse, dashed up, exclaiming:
"No signs of him back yonder, but there's blood-tracks beginnin' in the middle of the road, an' leanin' along this way. Come on!"
And away he galloped, while his brother remarked to his companion:
"'Ef he should have luck, an' get the reward, you be sure to tell him all the good things I've said about him, won't you?"
Jim Williamson rode rapidly in the direction of the wagon until, finding himself alone, and remembering what had befallen his companions, he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and pursued rapidly on foot. He soon saw the wagon looming up in front of him again, and was puzzled to know how to reach it and learn the truth, when the wagon turned abruptly off the road, and apparently into the forest.
Following as closely as he could under cover of the timber, he found that, after picking its way among the trees for a mile, it stopped before a small log cabin, of whose existence Jim had never known before.