Traces like those of human footsteps were in truth visible in the dust, but we had no time to stop for examination. We rode on, watching the country on either side of the road. The heat and animation of the chase seemed to affect our guide, heavy plowman though he was.
“There go his tracks still!” he cried. “See, by the edge of the road, by the grass there?”
“We’ll catch him in five minutes!” cried Adams, full of enthusiasm.
Our guide was ten feet in front of me, leaning over and looking about with much eagerness. A curve in the road two or three hundred yards ahead became visible. Suddenly I noticed an increase of excitement in the expression of our guide.
“I see him! I see him!” he cried.
“Where? Where?” I shouted.
“Yonder! yonder! Don’t you see, just turning the curve in the road? There! He has seen us too, and is drawing a pistol. Gentlemen, remember your agreement: I’m not to do any of the fighting. I will fall back.”
“All right!” I cried. “You’ve done your share of the business. Drop back.—Forward, Whitestone! We’ve got our man now!”
In a high state of excitement we whipped our horses forward, paying no further attention to the plowman, for whom in truth we had use no longer. Our horses seemed to share our zeal, and recalled their waning strength and spirits. Forward we went at a fine pace, all three of us straining our eyes to catch the first glimpse of the fugitive when we should turn the curve around the hill.