But no Nomad appeared. Had Wolf-killer lost the trail? It was not like him to do that, for Wolf-killer could follow a trail like an Indian.
Mounting his pinto, Little Cayuse retraced his course through the gully.
When he had reached a place where the drumming of the stamps sounded low in his ears, the echoes were taken up by more hoof-beats. Cayuse drew aside, and McGowan, owner of the mine, swung past.
The boy had thought, at first, that it might be Nomad and only his native caution had kept him from giving a shout from the trail-side. A moment later he had recognized McGowan as instinctively as he had recognized Jacobs.
He recalled that McGowan had told Jacobs to return to the mine with Bernritter, and both to go at once. And here Jacobs had preceded his employer into the camp by only a few minutes!
The boy plagued himself with questions in an attempt to account for this, and for Bernritter’s meeting and talking with the Apache.
Above these things, which mightily puzzled the Piute, was the more important question as to what had become of old Nomad.
Still riding and hoping, Cayuse drew well away from the croon of the stamps.
Then he heard a sound, far in the distance, that sent a chill to his heart.