Dropping on all fours, Sime feels for hoof-prints of the horses that have just crossed, groping in darkness. He can distinguish them from all others by their being wet. And so does, gaining ground, bit by bit, surely if slowly.
But Clancy has conceived a more expeditious plan, which he makes known, saying:
“No need taking all that trouble, Sime. You may be the best trailer in Texas; and no doubt you are, for a biped: still here’s one can beat you.”
“Who?” asks the backwoodsman, rising erect, “show me the man.”
“No man,” interrupts the other with a smile. “For our purpose something better. There stands your competitor.”
“You’re right; I didn’t think o’ the dog. He’ll do it like a breeze. Put him on, Charley!”
“Come, Brasfort!” says Clancy, apostrophising the hound, while lengthening the leash, and setting the animal on the slot. “You tell us where the redskin riders have gone.”
The intelligent creature well understands what is wanted, and with nose to the ground goes instantly off. But for the check string it would soon outstrip them for its eager action tells it has caught scent of a trail.
At first lifting it along the ford road, but only for a few yards. Then abruptly turning left, the dog is about to strike into the timber, when the hand of the master restrains it.
The instinct of the animal is no longer needed. They perceive the embouchure of a path, that looks like the entrance to a cave, dark and forbidding as the back door of a jail. But surely a trace leading in among the trees, which the plumed horsemen have taken.