Buffalo Bill dismounted, and saw that one leg of the animal was broken.
“I understand,” he said. “The pony stepped in that hole there, broke a leg, and was shot as an act of compassion.”
Wild Bill, the man of coolness, threw up his sombrero. “We’ve got him now,” he exclaimed. “That’s as certain as death and taxes.”
The king of scouts did not share in his old comrade’s belief. “I don’t know about that,” he said soberly. “Not having the pony, he will not be obliged to keep to the trail. And it is so hard and rocky up here that it will be no easy matter to trail him. However, we will hope for the best.”
Half an hour later Bart Angell, who had left the trail at the request of Buffalo Bill, to explore a ravine that debouched into the cañon upon the high side of which they had been traveling, made a discovery that raised the spirits of his comrades.
The footprints of two persons had been found on a short, sandy stretch, just below the mouth of a spring.
The tracks pointed up the ravine, and it was clear that retreat was being made in that direction.
There was no mistaking the prints. One set belonged to a man, the other to a woman.
“You may ease your mind regarding one thing, Mr. Henson,” said Buffalo Bill. “Miss Wilton has come to her senses. She can walk, too.”
The young man’s relief at this statement was not pronounced. “But why is she going along with that scoundrel?” he said, with a voice that had anger as well as surprise in it. “He isn’t dragging her along. She is stepping freely.”