“The tracks, young fellur—the tracks.”
“But how by them?”
“Easy as eatin’ hump-rib: them as wur made by the white hoss ur un’ermost.”
The conclusion was clear indeed. The Indians must have been after him.
We stayed no longer upon the spot, but once more sending the trackers forward, moved on after them.
We had advanced about half-a-mile farther, when the horse-tracks, hitherto scattered, and tending in different directions, became merged together, as though the Indians had been riding, not in single file—as is their ordinary method—but in an irregular body of several abreast.
The trackers, after proceeding along this new trail for a hundred yards or so, deliberately drew up; and dismounting, bent down upon their hands and knees, as if once more to examine the sign. The rest of us halted a little behind, and watched their proceedings without offering to interrupt them.
Both were observed to be busy blowing aside the ashes, not now from any particular track, but from the full breadth of the trail.
In a few minutes, they succeeded in removing the black dust from a stretch of several yards—so that the numerous hoof-prints could be distinctly traced, side by side, or overlapping and half obliterating one another.
Rube now returned to where they had commenced; and then once more leisurely advancing upon his knees, with eyes close to the surface, appeared to scrutinise the print of every hoof separately.