“You’ll be tired enough as it is,” Corporal Rand pointed out. “Dick here hasn’t had a wink of sleep in the past twenty-four hours.”
The party set out shortly afterward, moving quickly through the darkness. They reached the Settlement River trail without mishap. Not a word was spoken. Silently they trekked on. In spite of the importance of their undertaking, the travelling had become so monotonous that Dick nodded in the saddle. The crunch, crunch, crunch of the ponies’ hoofs was slowly lulling him to sleep. Had his horse not stumbled occasionally over some obstruction in the trail, it is probable he might have fallen from his seat. On one of these occasions, shaken back to consciousness when on the verge of dropping off into sound sleep, he heard the voice of Sergeant Richardson.
“Just a moment, boys, until I get my bearings.”
They checked their forward progress at once. Instructing Sandy to look after the prisoner, the two policemen came up to the head of the column, conversing in low tones.
“We leave the trail here somewhere,” Richardson announced. “There used to be a tiny foot-path that wound away through the trees to our left. This is the one the outlaws must use in going to and from Settlement Mountain.”
“Like hunting for a needle in a haystack,” Dick heard Rand remark. “Have you a flashlight, sergeant?”
A faint flicker of light appeared and the two men started up the trail, their eyes searching the ground. Dick would have pushed on after them but Toma, who was in the lead, restrained him.
“They want us to stay here,” he whispered. “Come back jus’ so soon find ’em pack-trail.”
The curious eyes of the boys followed the retreating figures. Now and again, like a large fire-fly, the small electric torch flashed out. It appeared, disappeared, re-appeared, lending reality to the illusion.
How long they watched there, Dick could not say. He was nodding again when the two returned.