Tom was already holding aloft a blazing pine-knot. And, to Larry’s amazement, without waiting for any one to join him, he started off in the direction from whence the sounds had come.
“He’s certainly got a lot of nerve,” mused the blond lad. Then, turning toward Dave, he added, “I’ll go with you.”
And presently seven pine-knots were sending weird shoots of light into the depths of the woods. Trees sprang into view, and flashed out; great masses of underbrush caught the glow, held it for an instant, then dropped from sight.
Thunderbolt, eager as a coyote, with Sam Randall at his side, frequently stooped over to examine the ground. Bushes and grass had been trampled almost flat by the cattle. Down by the dark, silent water of the creek the Indian’s eye scanned a muddy strip of shore for signs of men or horses.
He saw plenty of signs, but even he, with all his cunning and sagacity, was unable to determine whether any of them had been made by strangers or not.
“We can’t find a single clue,” remarked Sam, disappointedly.
“Men all gone now,” said Thunderbolt. “Much queer. I no understand. Maybe cattle rustlers; maybe not.”
“It’s as deep a mystery as the Jed Warren affair,” murmured Sam.
Following the bank they explored every foot of the way. But no discoveries of any kind rewarded their eager search.
“We find nothings,” said Thunderbolt, disconsolately.