Chapter Forty Two.
A Foot of thirteen Inches.
The presence of the wheelbarrow explained a point that had been puzzling us for some days. We had fallen upon its track more than once, and supposed it to have been made by the wheel of a cart; but in no instance being able to find the corresponding one, had given it up as a hopeless enigma. The only explanation we had succeeded in offering ourselves was: that some light cart had accompanied the caravan—the load of which, being badly balanced, had thrown the weight upon one wheel, allowing the other to pass over the ground without making an impression. As it was only on dry grass we had traced it, this explanation had sufficed—though far from being satisfactory. Neither my companion nor myself ever thought of a wheelbarrow. Who would, in such a place?
“In the name o’ Old Nick, who kin they be?” asked Wingrove, as we halted on the ridge, where the fugitives had been last seen. “I’m not without my suspicions,” I replied, just then thinking of a peculiarity that had but slightly occupied my attention—the cut and colour of their dresses. “If I am not mistaken, the two shy birds that have fled from us are a brace of uncle Sam’s eagles.”
“Sojers?”
“In all probability, and ‘old sojers’ at that.”
“But what ’ud sojers be a doin’ out hyar?”
“Travelling to California, like ourselves.”