Where the horse had wheeled round, and for miles beyond, the plain was thickly strewn with white shingle.
It was, in trapper parlance, a “chalk prairie.”
The stones showed displacement; and here and there an abrasion that appeared to have been made by the hoof of a horse.
But these marks were scarce discernible, and only to the eyes of the skilled tracker.
It was the case with the trail they had been taking up—that of the shod mustang; and as the surface had lately been disturbed by a wild herd, the particular hoof-marks could no longer be distinguished.
They might have gone further in the direction taken by the headless rider.
The sun would have been their guide, and after that the evening star.
But it was the rider of the shod mustang they were desirous to overtake; and the half hour of daylight that followed was spent in fruitless search for his trail—gone blind among the shingle.
Spangler proclaimed himself at fault, as the sun disappeared over the horizon.
They had no alternative but to ride back to the chapparal, and bivouac among the bushes.
The intention was to make a fresh trial for the recovery of the trail, at the earliest hour of the morning.
It was not fulfilled, at least as regarded time.
The trial was postponed by an unexpected circumstance.
Scarce had they formed camp, when a courier arrived, bringing a despatch for the major.
It was from the commanding officer of the district, whose head-quarters were at San Antonio do Bexar.
It had been sent to Fort Inge, and thence forwarded.
The major made known its tenor by ordering “boots and saddles” to be sounded; and before the sweat had become dry upon the horses, the dragoons were once more upon their backs.
The despatch had conveyed the intelligence, that the Comanches were committing outrage, not upon the Leona, but fifty miles farther to the eastward, close to the town of San Antonio itself.
It was no longer a mere rumour.
The maraud had commenced by the murder of men, women, and children, with the firing of their houses.
The major was commanded to lose no time, but bring what troops he could spare to the scene of operations.
Hence his hurried decampment.
The civilians might have stayed; but friendship—even parental affection—must yield to the necessities of nature. Most of them had set forth without further preparation than the saddling of their horses, and shouldering their guns; and hunger now called them home.
There was no intention to abandon the search.
That was to be resumed as soon as they could change horses, and establish a better system of commissariat. Then would it be continued—as one and all declared, to the “bitter end.”
A small party was left with Spangler to take up the trail of the American horse, which according to the tracker’s forecast would lead back to the Leona.
The rest returned along with the dragoons.
Before parting with Poindexter and his friends, the major made known to them—what he had hitherto kept back—the facts relating to the bloody sign, and the tracker’s interpretation of it.
As he was no longer to take part in the search, he thought it better to communicate to those who should, a circumstance so important.
It pained him to direct suspicion upon the young Irishman, with whom in the way of his calling he had held some pleasant intercourse.
But duty was paramount; and, notwithstanding his disbelief in the mustanger’s guilt, or rather his belief in its improbability, he could not help acknowledging that appearances were against him.
With the planter and his party it was no longer a suspicion.
Now that the question of Indians was disposed of, men boldly proclaimed Maurice Gerald a murderer.
That the deed had been done no one thought of doubting.
Oberdoffer’s story had furnished the first chapter of the evidence.
Henry’s horse returning with the blood-stained saddle the last.
The intermediate links were readily supplied—partly by the interpretations of the tracker, and partly by conjecture.
No one paused to investigate the motive—at least with any degree of closeness.
The hostility of Gerald was accounted for by his quarrel with Calhoun; on the supposition that it might have extended to the whole family of the Poindexters!
It was very absurd reasoning; but men upon the track of a supposed murderer rarely reason at all.
They think only of destroying him.
With this thought did they separate; intending to start afresh on the following morning, throw themselves once more upon the trail of the two men who were missing, and follow it up, till one or both should be found—one or both, living or dead.
The party left with Spangler remained upon the spot which the major had chosen as a camping ground.
They were in all less than a dozen.
A larger number was deemed unnecessary.
Comanches, in that quarter, were no longer to be looked for; nor was there any other danger that called for a strength of men.
Two or three would have been sufficient for the duty required of them.
Nine or ten stayed—some out of curiosity, others for the sake of companionship.
They were chiefly young men—sons of planters and the like. Calhoun was among them—the acknowledged chief of the party; though Spangler, acting as guide, was tacitly understood to be the man to whom obedience should be given.
Instead of going to sleep, after the others had ridden away, they gathered around a roaring fire, already kindled within the thicket glade.