“What else can we do?” said Cameron. “We might as well. There is a faint chance we might come across a trace.”
But no trace did they find, though they spent an hour and more in close and minute scrutiny of the ground about the camp and the trails leading out from it.
“Where now?” inquired the Inspector.
“Home for me,” said Cameron. “To-morrow to Calgary. Next week I take up this trail. You may as well come along with me, Inspector. We can talk things over as we go.”
They were a silent and chagrined pair as they rode out from the Reserve toward the ranch. As they were climbing from the valley to the plateau above they came to a soft bit of ground. Here Cameron suddenly drew rein with a warning cry, and, flinging himself off his broncho, was upon his knee examining a fresh track.
“A pony-track, by all that's holy! And within an hour. It is our man,” he cried, examining the trail carefully and following it up the hill and out on to the plateau. “It is our man sure enough, and he is taking this trail.”
For some miles the pony-tracks were visible enough. There was no attempt to cover them. The rider was evidently pushing hard.
“Where do you think he is heading for, Inspector?”
“Well,” said the Inspector, “this trail strikes toward the Blackfoot Reserve by way of your ranch.”
“My ranch!” cried Cameron. “My God! Look there!”