There, plainly outlined, was the impress of a large human foot, naked and bare. That it was not made by an Indian was plain, for though many white men in-toe, a red-man, unless an habitual drunkard, never toes out, as this trail plainly did. Then, again, an Indian's foot, from never having been tightly compressed in boots or shoes, is very flat and broad; this trail was made by a man with a high instep and arching sole.
"How do you know it isn't one of them?" asked Upshur.
"Easily enough. Look back along the trail. You see, it crosses that stretch o' splintered rocks? Now, look at these tracks. The foot ain't cut none. That shows that it's made by a feller that's used to goin' bar'foot fer a long time. Ef you was to cross that, you'd cut an' gouge your hoofs so this 'ere 'd be a trail o' blood. See?"
"But who can it be then?"
"Don't know. It's fresh—ain't bin made over a hour, at furderest. Whoever it is, must be in the hills yender. I move we foller on, an' find 'im. Mebbe he kin tell us somethin' 'bout the boys," suggested Chicot, moving forward, without waiting to learn the wishes of his followers.
In fact, Chicot was only too glad of a good excuse to delay the search for Burr Wythe. Though firmly believing him guilty of the murder, yet he did not wish to be the instrument of justice. In his quiet, unobtrusive way, he loved Burr, almost as he would have loved a son.
The trail led in a direct line toward the hills, here rising abrupt and rocky, broken and rugged. Though at times losing all trace, Chicot found little difficulty in recovering the trail as often.
An abrupt exclamation from Nathan Upshur startled him, and all eyes turned upon him. His face wore an expression of wonder, as he pointed with outstretched hand toward the rocks above the party.
"Look there! Is it man, or devil?"
Glancing in the direction indicated, the trail-hunters beheld the object of his wonder. And they, too, stood as if bewildered. And little wonder. A truly strange object was before their eyes.