CHAPTER VIII
THE TRACK OF THE MARKED HOOF
“What’s gone wrong, Roger?”
“Our packhorse has disappeared in the night; I’ve looked high and low for him, Dick, but it’s no use.”
“Did you hobble him the way we had the other animals fixed?” asked the other lad.
“Yes, but you know he always had a habit of straying farther than either of the riding horses; and the chances are he’s gone so far now that he doesn’t know the way back. What will we do about it, Dick; wait over and spend the best part of a day looking for him; or divide up the stuff, and get on?”
Impatient Roger undoubtedly would be for the latter method of solving the question, if left to his own devices. He was already tired of the slow progress they seemed to have been making in all these weeks they had been on the go.
“Well, in the first place,” began Dick, “we ought to make some sort of a hunt for the packhorse. We’ve managed to keep him with us so far, after some narrow shaves, and it would be a great pity to let him go just because we didn’t want to take the trouble to look him up.”
“But,” objected the other, “he may be miles away from here by now.”