Beyond the baranca, a mile distant, they caught sight of a horse feeding upon the juicy grass. One glance sufficed. It was the big yellow horse Mott, on which Fred Hawksley had set forth in pursuit of the strange woman. The animal was alone, saddled and bridled. Nothing could be seen of his master.
The prairie around was closely scrutinized. One thing was plain; the horse had not crossed the baranca, nor been nearer to it than when found, since daylight, else the rain-moistened turf would have betrayed the fact. Following its trail, they found where it had stood for some time tied to the hanging limb of a tree, in a hollow hidden from the baranca, a mile or more distant. But nowhere could they find the imprints of human feet.
All was done that human ingenuity could devise, but at the end of the week, all was wrapt in darkness. Nothing was learned regarding the young man’s fate, nor, during that time, had any thing been heard of the strange woman rider. Both had seemingly disappeared together, without leaving any trace.
The agonized grief of the bereaved family had settled down to a more quiet, though not less acute sorrow. The everyday duties of life must be performed, though the heart be breaking.
It was nightfall when a single horseman drew rein before the dwelling of Archibald Hawksley, dismounting, and, with plump saddle-bags thrown over his arm, approached the front door with that assured freedom so characteristic of the West. There, hospitality is a matter of course. If sunset catches a traveler near a house, that, for the time being, is his home. He is welcomed, given the best the place affords, then sent on his way rejoicing. An experienced traveler never offers money in return; ’tis a poor reward for hospitality to insult a host.
The traveler in question bore evidence of having ridden many a mile, in the sand and dust that covered his garments, and his heavy horse-hide boots. There was a peculiar air about him that told a settler his occupation. Every thing, from the heavy, “black-snake” whip down, stamped him a drover.
Archibald Hawksley, a tall, stalwart man, bearing his years well, warmly greeted the stranger. Five minutes later, the drover was comfortably seated, pipe in mouth, awaiting the evening meal that Fanny was overseeing.
“Stranger in these parts, I reckon,” quoth Hawksley, also “blowing a cloud,” falling insensibly into the peculiar dialect of the parts, though a well-educated man.
“Yas—this is my fust trip this fur out, though I’ve traded over the line fer some y’ars. Met a feller in Naketosh” (Natchitoches) “last trip—fergit his name now, but reckon it don’t matter much—who told me thar was a chaince fer right smart tradin’ up this a-way; so here I be, ready fer business. I’ve got the money, you fellers hev got the spar’ horses an’ cattle, so I guess we kin come to tarms.”
A man is never so grief-stricken as to entirely neglect his personal interests, and Hawksley was soon deep in “business talk” with Mark Haley, as the trader gave his name. There was little difficulty in coming to terms, for the trader offered good prices, seeming strangely liberal, for a drover.