Although still a little sceptical, Dick was sufficiently well acquainted with Toma and his ability and prowess, not to doubt that the Indian lad might be correct in his surmise. Very rarely, indeed, did Toma err in matters of this kind. A natural-born tracker and scout, versed in the ways of the wilderness, he had often startled his two young friends by his almost unlimited knowledge of wood-lore.
“And that isn’t all,” Sandy’s voice broke the lull in their conversation. “We discovered something else besides those tracks. I almost hate to tell you, Dick.”
“What was it?” his friend asked wonderingly.
“Blood stains!” Sandy enlightened him. “The man’s tracks were sprinkled here and there with tiny red spots. He must have been hurt or wounded, Dick. It makes me shiver to think about it.”
“Perhaps he was carrying some animal he had killed,” suggested Dick.
Again Toma shook his head.
“No,” he stated with conviction, “man hurt very bad. Him not go many miles like that. Toma feel plenty sorry for that man.”
In alarm, Dick looked from one to the other of his two friends. A hurt or wounded man out there on the trail alone—it made him feel weak and sick himself. He recalled his own helplessness and horror on the previous night, when he had fallen and sprained his ankle.
“Isn’t there something we can do?” he finally blurted out. “Just think what it may mean, Sandy.”
Sandy did not answer. Neither did Toma. The three boys were looking at each other now in a gloomy silence.