As he reached it the Rambler uttered an exclamation of surprise. Deeply imprinted on this tract were impressions of horses’ hoofs.
“Great Scott!” cried Bob, leaping to the ground.
All thoughts of returning for the present vanished from his mind. Here was exactly what he had been looking for so anxiously. A careful examination, too, convinced him that the tracks were fresh.
“Well, this is certainly a great piece of luck,” he exclaimed, joyously. “I haven’t the least doubt in the world that it was Mr. Hank Styles’ friend who passed this way.”
Highly encouraged, Bob Somers resumed the trail, and presently made another interesting discovery. Beside the fresh tracks were many others clearly much older. A pathway, too, had been beaten through the tall grass.
Satisfied that for the present at least there was no danger of his going off the track, Bob traveled on, putting mile after mile behind him. Occasionally he urged his horse through dark, somber ravines which suggested the abode of wild animals, for nature here had contrived to put on its grimmest aspect.
At last progress by the side of the stream was no longer possible. The hills rose steeply from the water’s edge.
“Blocked from the creek, that’s certain,” mused Bob.
After taking the precaution to fill his canteen and give the horse a drink, he surveyed the landscape carefully in all directions. From the character of the ground he felt sure that the man had been obliged to follow the stream on the same side, and, on further consideration, concluded it to be quite possible that he had mounted the hill, either there or at a point close by.
“So I’ll climb it myself,” he said, giving the reins a jerk.