“That was only a mistake, I tell you,” insisted Hank, “though, for that matter, the Indians wouldn’t hesitate to take ’em just for fun, if they thought they could make trouble that way.”
“And they will make a heap of trouble, too, I’m afraid,” spoke Blake.
“Here now!” called Joe, in jollier tones. “Don’t come any of that C. C. Piper business, Blake. Look on the bright side.”
“Well, I suppose I ought to, but it’s hard work.”
They had traveled all that morning, hoping to come up with the roving band of Indians. But they had had no success.
Hank did pick up the trail of the raiders soon after starting out. The Indians had left their horses tethered some distance from the camp, and had crept up afoot, probably having spied Blake, Joe and Hank from afar the previous evening. And though the moccasined feet of the savages left little trace on the hard and sun-baked earth, there was enough “sign” for so experienced a trailer as was Hank to pick up.
Thus he had been led to where the horses had been left, and after that it was easy enough to follow the marks of the hoofs.
“There are about twenty-five in this band, as near as I can make out,” said Hank, “and every one of ’em has a horse of some sort. Pretty good travelers, too, I take it, since our animals were fresh and we haven’t been able to come up to ’em yet, though we’ve kept up a pretty fair gait. But we’ll get ’em yet.”
“If only it isn’t too late,” spoke Blake, whose one fear was that the valuable picture films would be spoiled. “Let’s hurry on.”
“Another little rest will do the horses good,” said the cowboy guide. “Then we can push on so much the faster. Our horses are our best friends, and we’ve got to treat ’em right if we want the best service out of them. Another half-hour and we’ll push on.”