“Durn it! thur plain es the nose on a Jew’s face. Thur’s a big shoe, an a little un clost aside o’ it. Thet’s the way they’ve rud off, which show that they hain’t follered the wild maars no further than hyur. We’d better keep on arter them?”
“By all means!”
Without further parley, Zeb started along the new trail; which, though still undiscernible to the eye of the other, was to him as conspicuous as he had figuratively declared it.
In a little while it became visible to his companion—on their arrival at the place where the fugitives had once more urged their horses into a gallop to escape from the cavallada, and where the shod tracks deeply indented the turf.
Shortly after their trail was again lost—or would have been to a scrutiny less keen than that of Zeb Stump—among the hundreds of other hoof-marks seen now upon the sward.
“Hilloo!” exclaimed the old hunter, in some surprise at the new sign. “What’s been a doin’ hyur? This air some ’at kewrious.”
“Only the tracks of the wild mares!” suggested Calhoun. “They appear to have made a circuit, and come round again?”
“If they hev it’s been arter the others rud past them. The chase must a changed sides, I reck’n.”
“What do you mean, Mr Stump?”
“That i’stead o’ them gallupin’ arter the maars, the maars hev been gallupin’ arter them.”