“Roy Funk!”
“He would not be alone in these parts and running toward the Huron’s mouth. Golden Cheek was to have guided him to Beaver River.”
“Don’t I know his foot-track?” queried the trapper. “Haven’t I seen it too often to be deceived? I ruther guess I have. Come, boys, while Huldah is in Royal Funk’s power it is a sin to rest. I’ve an idea where he intends stopping a while; but I hope he will go further on—I do, indeed.”
The Night-Hawk’s trail told the trio that he was hurrying through the woods at no insignificant speed, but they did not follow in a gait equal to his own.
Before leaving Zebulon Strong, Wolf-Cap had covered him with brush, and all alone the traitor slept the everlasting sleep of the dead. Huldah Armstrong seemed a fatal prize. She had brought death to the door of more than one heart. Spagano—brave Golden Cheek—Zebulon Strong, Colonel O’Neill and the Night-Hawks had already fallen for her, and perhaps others yet might die for the beautiful prize.
The trio pursued the trail an hour in silence, and Mark Harmon was the first to speak.
“Wolf-Cap,” he said, in a low tone, glancing at Silver Hand, who was walking along, with his head on his breast, his dark eyes on the faint trail, “I’ve been thinking about some words that puzzle me.”
Card Belt slowly lifted his eyes to the youth.
“War it some words that I left drop?” he inquired.
“No.”