“E. D.” muttered Hippy. “I should say this is Miss Dean’s handkerchief. Well, what next?”
“All hands got on the horses and went on up the canyon. I come back from that pint.”
“Ike, you are a wonder! How do you do it? I couldn’t read the story of a trail the way you do, if I was to practice it all the rest of my life.”
“An’ I reckon thet if I tried to sail one of them flyin’ machines my name would be Dennis, right smart,” replied Ike. “Get aboard! We’re goin’ right up thet trail and we’re goin’ to keep goin’ till either we lose it for good, or find the gals, or get shot doin’ one or t’other. We can’t pull off an’ wait till mornin’. Mornin’ may be too late.”
Hippy swung into his saddle, Ike being but a few seconds behind him in mounting, Mr. Fairweather taking the lead at a slow jog trot.
“Right here’s where they took to the ponies,” announced Ike finally. How he knew that in the darkness, Hippy was unable to imagine, but then, Hippy Wingate had not followed mountain trails at any stage of his career, and knew nothing of them.
Ike now began to flash his light against the mountain, first on one side, then on the other.
“Whoa!” The command came out sharp and incisive. “Hold my nag, Lieutenant.” The old driver dismounted, and, handing his bridle rein to his companion, began climbing up along the mountainside, keeping the ray of his light directly on the ground at his feet.
Ike returned in a few minutes.
“I reckon we’ve got to do some tall climbin’ ourselves. Party went up the mountain here.” Ike mounted and started up a twisting, narrow trail, his light now in almost continuous use, for the going was extremely perilous.