"I think I can tell just how this will end," muttered Burr, after progressing a mile or more. "I think we will find the stopping-place on yonder point, where we can look down upon our camp. If so, we must hasten back, and join Jack. The hot-headed fellow may get into trouble."
A few minutes more proved their surmise to be correct. The trail doubled at the hill, and then ran back for a ways, side by side.
The friends had no difficulty in retracing their steps, and advanced at a half run. The damp earth had retained deep tracks.
In ten minutes they had regained the point where Tyrrel had left them, and still hastened after him. Then they paused, simultaneously uttering a low cry.
"Too late!" gasped Duplin.
Faint and indistinct came to their ears, borne by the favoring breeze, two quickly succeeding pistol-shots, closely followed by a cry, as of pain or mortal terror. These sounds came from up the valley.
Clutching their weapons, the friends bounded forward at top speed, their faces pale, their teeth tightly clenched. They feared the worst.
"My God! look there!" gasped Wythe, extending one trembling hand.
Before them, close to where the rocks that thickly covered the hillside began, the ground was torn and trampled, as though the scene of a desperate struggle for life. And upon one side of a whitely bleached bowlder was a large crimson stain.
A stain that could only be produced by blood!