Uncle Dick pushed away the plate of food, half-eaten. Dread had fallen on him suddenly. He tried to thrust it off, but the weight was too heavy for his strength of will. Perforce he yielded to alarm for the girl’s safety. A great fear was upon him lest it be too late for the warning he had meant to give. He growled a curse on his own folly in not guarding against immediate attack by the outlaw. It was with small hope of finding his apprehensions groundless that he set forth at once, rifle in hand, for the cabin of the Widow Higgins. There, his fears were confirmed. The old woman had seen nothing of Plutina, since the short pause on the way to the post-office. Uncle Dick groaned aloud over the fate that might have come on the girl. He told enough to give the Widow Higgins some understanding of the situation, and bade her go to his own house, there to remain and to comfort Alvira. For himself, he would first search over the 174 Cherry Lane trail for any trace of his vanished granddaughter, and thereafter raise the hue-and-cry to a general hunt through the mountains for the capture or killing of the villain, and the recovery of the girl, dead or alive. Not for an instant did the old man doubt that Hodges had done the deed.
Uncle Dick had no more than passed Luffman’s Branch on his way over the Cherry Lane Trail, when a joyous hail caused him to lift his eyes from their close scrutiny of the beaten earth. Descending the trail, a little way in front of him, appeared the slender, erect form of the one-armed veteran. The bridegroom moved with a jaunty step, and his wrinkled features radiated gladness. But, as he came near, his face sobered at sight of the other’s expression. His voice was solicitous.
“I ’low somethin’ air wrong,” he ventured.
Uncle Dick in his distress welcomed the note of sympathy. Somehow, he felt curiously drawn to this successful rival, and he was sure that his feeling was returned. Between the two men there was a curious mutual respect, as if each relied on the entire good sense of one who had loved Fanny Brown. The older man craved a confidant; he was avid for counsel and every possible assistance in this emergency. He told the facts as concisely as possible, while Seth Jones, wedded raptures forgot, 175 listened in growing sorrow and dismay. At the end, he spoke simply:
“I’ll take a look ’long with ye, Mister Siddon. I done a heap o’ trackin’ in my time, out West. Perhaps, I kin he’p ye some.”
Uncle Dick put out his hand, and the two palms met in a warm clasp, witness of friendship’s pact. Forthwith, they gave themselves to minute examination of the trail for any sign of the missing girl.
For a time, their patient search went unrewarded. But, about a half-mile beyond Luffman’s Branch, they came on an area still affected by one of the small showers so frequent in the mountains. Here, the veteran’s alert eyes distinguished a footprint outlined in the damp dust.
“Yer gal was barefut, I reckon,” he said. He pointed to the imprint just before where he was standing.
“Yep,” Uncle Dick answered. There was a little mist over his eyes, as he glanced down. “Yep; hit’s her’n.”
The veteran went forward confidently now.