“What should we do?”
“It are best for the hul o’ ye to stop here a bit. Me and Jim Weatherford’ll steal forbad to the edge of the timmer, an’ see if they’re got acrosst the savanner. Ef they are, then we must make roun’ it the best way we kin, an’ take up thar trail on the tother aide. Thar’s no other chance. If we’re seen crossin’ the open ground, we may jest as well turn tail to ’em, and take the back-track home agin.”
To the counsel of the alligator-hunter there was no dissenting voice. All acknowledged its wisdom, and he was left to carry out the design without opposition.
He and his companion once more dismounted from their horses, and, leaving us standing among the trees, advanced stealthily towards the edge of the opening.
It was a considerable time before they came back; and the other men were growing impatient. Many believed we were only losing time by this tardy reconnoissance, and the Indians would be getting further away. Sonde advised that the pursuit should be continued at once, and that, seen or not, we ought to ride directly onwards.
However consonant with my own feelings—burning as I was for a conflict with the murderers—I knew it would not be a prudent course. The guides were in the right.
These returned at length, and delivered their report. There was a savanna, and the Indians had crossed it. They had got into the timber on its opposite side, and neither man nor horse was to be seen. They could scarcely have been out of sight, before Hickman and Weatherford arrived upon its nearer edge, and the former averred that he had seen the tail of one of their horses, disappearing among the bushes.
During their absence, the cunning trackers had learned more. From the sign they had gathered another important fact—that there was no longer a trail for us to follow!
On entering the Savanna the Indians had scattered—the paths they had taken across the grassy meadow, were as numerous as their horses. As the hunter expressed it, the trail “war split up into fifty pieces.” The latter had ascertained this by crawling out among the long grass, and noting the tracks.
One in particular had occupied their attention. It was not made by the hoof-prints of horses, though some of these ran alongside, but by the feet of men. They were naked feet; and a superficial observer might have fancied that but one pair of them had passed over the ground. The skilled trackers, however, knew this to be a ruse. The prints were large, and misshapen, and too deeply indented in the soil to have been produced by a single individual. The long heel, and scarcely convex instep—the huge balls, and broad prints of the toes, were all signs that the hunters easily understood. They knew that it was the trail of the negro captives who had proceeded thus by the direction of their captors.