"My God! ... Bostil, look at thet!"
One riving pang tore through Bostil—and then he was suddenly his old self, facing the truth of danger to one he loved. He saw beside the big track a faint imprint of Lucy's small foot. That was the last sign of her progress and it told a story.
"Bostil, thet ain't Slone's track," said Holley, ringingly.
"Sure it ain't. Thet's the track of a big man," replied Bostil.
The other riders, circling round with bent heads, all said one way or another that Slone could not have made the trail.
"An' whoever he was grabbed Lucy up—made off with her?" asked Bostil.
"Plain as if we seen it done!" exclaimed Holley. There was fire in the clear, hawk eyes.
"Cordts!" cried Bostil, hoarsely.
"Mebbe—mebbe. But thet ain't my idee.... Come on."
Holley went so fast he almost ran, and he got ahead of Bostil. Finally several hundred yards out in the sage he halted, and again dropped to his knees. Bostil and the riders hurried on.