“Why, he’s collared your new gun, Coke,” shouted Fred, who had jumped up into the waggon in which the Indian had ridden and was making a hurried search, “And—whew! my little valise as well.”
The gun was a large-bore rifle of a new pattern, which Coke had only obtained with difficulty at the last moment; but even this theft, annoying as it was, was of minor importance compared with the disappearance of the valise, which contained all such maps and charts as its owner had been able to procure, some money, and his letters of introduction to people in Washington and across the boundary.
“Mounted or on foot?” asked Paul Dumont, the youngest of the brothers.
“Horses and mules all here, sir,” reported the manservant after a brisk look round.
“Then come on, Coke; up with you,” said young Paul. “We’ll have him,” and taking the two best of the horses, they were soon galloping along the path by which they had come. In a few minutes they were past the ridge with its little belt of trees, beyond which all was plain sailing—or would have been if only the light could have lasted a little longer; for here was only a treeless, imperceptibly sloping plain where even an Indian could scarcely hope to conceal himself.
“Fellow must be a perfect ass to think he could get away from us here,” said Coke. “There you are; there goes the gentleman.”
A couple of miles ahead was a dark, moving dot, evidently the Indian trotting along at a good round pace.
“Ass enough to know that there’s precious little 180 twilight now, at any rate,” said Paul ruefully, as he urged on his horse. “And there’s no moon till after midnight.”
They rode the next mile in silence, and, at the end of it, were no longer able to distinguish the fleeing figure with any degree of certainty. In another few minutes they were at the spot where they had first seen the Indian, but there was hardly enough light for even the keen-sighted Canadian to detect any trail.
“It’s no use thinking of giving up,” he said. “We must have the bag if we ride all night for it.”