At last, at a place some five miles from the Citadel, where two trails crossed at a sharp angle, he came to an abrupt halt to bend down and examine the loose, dry soil. Dropping on hands and knees he followed the other trail for a distance of fifty yards or more. Coming upon the dry bed of a stream, he halted. There, to all appearance, he found what he sought.
The bed of the stream was completely dry, but up the bank a little way was a small damp spot, where in the rainy season a spring flowed. In this damp spot were three well marked footsteps.
“Huh!” he grunted. “Didn’t think he’d desert us.”
For a full moment he stood there pondering. Then at last he turned and walked back toward camp.
“He wouldn’t desert us. Stands to reason he wouldn’t,” he muttered. “He might have discovered a clue. Some native might be leading him on. But leading him on to what?”
Curlie didn’t trust natives. He had a notion that all people save those of his own race were treacherous.
Arrived at camp, he cast down a bombshell by saying in his quietest drawl:
“Johnny’s gone into the mountains with a bunch of natives. We’ll follow in the morning, and we’ll take Mike with us.”
Dorn, the French boy, wanted to ask who Mike was, but being timid, and having always been somewhat ill at ease in the presence of this peculiar boy, he asked nothing.
Curlie ate hastily and in silence. Then with a mumbled excuse, he lost himself once more in the night.