A strange awe was upon the young ranger. All that was superstitious in his nature was now fully awakened. It seemed more than an adventure with common flesh and blood.
Twice his lips parted to utter his friend’s name, and as often he refrained, why, he could not himself tell. He peered down into the darkness, his horse slowly trotting along the escarpment, toward the north.
Suddenly Campbell gave vent to a cry. Close before him seemed a narrow pathway leading down into the ravine.
He urged his horse forward, and descended below the level of the prairie. But a very few moments convinced him that even if he could descend to the bottom, he could do little good without lights, and turning he scrambled once more to the level ground.
He saw that his comrades had come up, and were now standing as if amazed. His was the figure that drew the cry of astonishment from Craig Fenton.
“Quick, boys,” cried Campbell, riding toward them, “dismount and get something for torches. They must be down there—but whether dead or alive, God only knows!”
“You think that she—” began Fenton, in a low, hushed voice.
“I don’t know—I’m afraid to think. But don’t talk—make haste. We must search the ravine.”
The woods were near, and the young hunters well knew what to select for torches. In a very few minutes they were back to the edge of the baranca, where Ned Campbell had already kindled a light with his flint and steel.
Bearing the feebly-flickering torches, the party descended into the baranca by the path that, though rough, was amply wide. They slowly advanced along the rough, rock-strewn bottom, holding aloft their torches, expecting with each movement to come upon the dead and mangled form of their young friend.