“This ain’t gettin’ us nowhere, folks. We’re like fellers in one o’ them mazes you read about, that’s jest a puzzle and bewilderment. Let’s get out of it, and skirmish round the edges o’ things. If the boys scooted off, they scooted somewhere; and we ought to be able to pick up the trail where it ain’t all tangled up with half a dozen others and I dunno how many more.”
Following this suggestion, they made a circuit of the “Island.” It revealed no less than four trails, any one of which might be the one they sought.
One led down the valley; two others toward the river; the fourth headed up-stream. With the drive of the rain sharp outlines had been obliterated.
Lon studied the impressions closely.
“I ain’t no Apache tracker, and I dunno’s it would help things much if I was; but if you want my guess, it’s that more’n one feller went this way.” He nodded at a trail leading toward the river.
Mr. Grant inclined to believe that the down-valley trail was more promising. The boys hesitated, frankly unable to form an intelligent opinion.
“Well, we can try both,” said the farmer. “I’ll take this chap”—he nodded at Orkney—“and you two can go the other road.”
Nobody else had a better plan to offer. Mr. Grant and Orkney plodded off down the valley, and Lon and Sam headed for the river.
For a little way the marks they followed were fairly plain. That is, it was quite evident that one or more persons had passed that way, though how long before was pure guesswork. Then, presently, they came to a low, swampy tract; and here among hummocks and pools and dense patches of bushes the trail lost itself.
“No use, Sam!” Lon growled, as he stumbled over a root, and barely escaped a fall. “If those two young idiots were steering for anything in partic’lar, it’d be the river. Come on! We’ll try for a short cut.”