“Yes; made this mornin’. Buffler, thar’s Injuns snoopin’ round hyar, and thet’s a fact.”
“More than the horse is gone,” said the scout; “the girl herself is gone!”
Nomad stared at the scout, then gripped his rifle and stared round.
“Tooken by Injuns?”
“Yes; that’s what Gordon and I make of it. Here are moccasin tracks. We think the redskin stole into the cabin while we were digging the grave, and came on her perhaps while she was asleep. Anyway, the thing was done so quietly we didn’t hear a sound.”
He pointed to the tracks, and to the eagle feather.
Old Nomad was for the moment almost too amazed to speak.
“We’ve got ter foller her, Buffler!”
“Yes, and at once; and I was going to say to you that if you will finish filling in the grave of John Forest, we will follow this trail at once. Then you can come on as fast as possible, and no doubt you’ll soon overtake us.”
Nomad looked earnestly at the brown hills.