“They aint fresh,” he says, speaking of the tracks last looked at. “Thet is, they hain’t been made ’ithin the hour. Tharfor, it can’t be them as hev jest crossed the stream. Take a squint at ’em, Charley.”
Clancy, thus called upon, lowering his eyes, again looks at the tracks. Not for long. A glance gives him evidence that Woodley is right. The horses which made these outgoing tracks cannot be the same seen coming across.
And now, the others being more carefully scrutinised, these same two are discovered among them, with the convexity of the hoof turned towards the river!
In all this there is strangeness, though it is not the time to inquire into it. That must be left till later. Their only thought now is, where are the Indians; for they have certainly not come on along the road.
“Boys!” says Woodley, “we’ve been makin’ a big roundabout ’ithout gainin’ a great deal by it. Sartin them redskins hev stopped at the river, an’ thar mean squatting for the remainder o’ this night. That’ll suit our purpiss to a teetotum. We kin capter ’em in thar camp eezier than on the backs o’ thar critters. So, let’s go right on an’ grup ’em!”
With this he turns, and runs back along the road, the others keeping close after.
In ten minutes more they are on the river’s bank, where it declined to the crossing. They see no Indians there—no human creatures of any kind—nor yet any horses!