“That your plan seems best. You’re sure there’s no other way for them to pass out from the river?”
“This chile don’t know o’ any, ceptin’ this trace we’ve ourselves kum off o’.”
“Then, clearly, our best plan is first to try along the road—all together.”
“Let’s on, then!” urges Woodley. “Thar’s no time to waste. While we stan’ talkin’ hyar, them redskins may ride to the jumpin’-off place o’ creashun.”
So saying, the hunter turns face to the right, and goes off at a run, the others moving in like manner behind him.
After proceeding some two or three hundred yards, they arrive at a place where the trees, standing apart, leave an open space between. There a saddle-like hollow intersects the road, traversing it from side to side. It is the channel of a rivulet when raining; but now nearly dry, its bed a mortar of soft mud. They had crossed it coming in towards the river, but without taking any notice of it, further than the necessity of guiding their tired steeds to guard against their stumbling. It was then in darkness, the twilight just past, and the moon not risen. Now that she is up in mid heaven, it is flooded by her light, so that the slightest mark in the mud can be clearly distinguished.
Running their eyes over its surface, they observe tracks they have not been looking for, and more than they have reason to expect. Signs to cause them surprise, if not actual alarm. Conspicuous are two deep parallel ruts, which they know have been made by the wheels of the emigrant wagons. A shower of rain, since fallen, has not obliterated them; only washed off their sharp angles, having done the same with the tracks of the mule teams between, and those of the half hundred horses ridden alongside, as also the hoof-marks of the horned cattle driven after.
It is not any of these that gives them concern. But other tracks more recent, made since the ram—in fact, since the sun lose that same morning—made by horses going towards the river, and with riders on their backs. Over twenty in all, without counting their own; some of them shod, but most without iron on the hoof. To the eyes of Sime Woodley—to Clancy’s as well—these facts declare themselves at a single glance; and they only dwell upon further deductions. But not yet. For while scanning the slough they see two sets of horse tracks going in the opposite direction—outward from the river. Shod horses, too; their hoof-prints stamped deep in the mud, as if both had been heavily mounted.
This is a matter more immediate. The redskins, riding double, have gone past. If they are to be overtaken, nor a moment must be spent thinking of aught else.
Clancy has risen erect, ready to rush on after them. So Heywood and the rest. But not Woodley, who, still stooping over the slough, seems unsatisfied. And soon he makes a remark, which not only restrains the others, but causes an entire change in their intention.