Sartin they hain’t.
What then?”
The speaker scanned the surface of the plain with an interrogative glance; as if there, and not from Cassius Calhoun, expecting an answer to his question.
“I cannot see their tracks anywhere,” replied the ex-captain.
“No, kan’t ye?
I kin though.
Lookee hyur!
Don’t ye see them thur bruises on the grass?”
“No.”
“Durn it! thur plain es the nose on a Jew’s face.
Thur’s a big shoe, an a little un clost aside o’ it.
Thet’s the way they’ve rud off, which show that they hain’t follered the wild maars no further than hyur.
We’d better keep on arter them?”
“By all means!”
Without further parley, Zeb started along the new trail; which, though still undiscernible to the eye of the other, was to him as conspicuous as he had figuratively declared it.
In a little while it became visible to his companion—on their arrival at the place where the fugitives had once more urged their horses into a gallop to escape from the cavallada, and where the shod tracks deeply indented the turf.
Shortly after their trail was again lost—or would have been to a scrutiny less keen than that of Zeb Stump—among the hundreds of other hoof-marks seen now upon the sward.
“Hilloo!” exclaimed the old hunter, in some surprise at the new sign. “What’s been a doin’ hyur?
This air some ’at kewrious.”
“Only the tracks of the wild mares!” suggested Calhoun. “They appear to have made a circuit, and come round again?”
“If they hev it’s been arter the others rud past them.
The chase must a changed sides, I reck’n.”
“What do you mean, Mr Stump?”
“That i’stead o’ them gallupin’ arter the maars, the maars hev been gallupin’ arter them.”
“How can you tell that?”
“Don’t ye see that the shod tracks air kivered by them o’ the maars?
Maars—no! By the ’turnal airthquake!—them’s not maar-tracks.
They air a inch bigger.
Thur’s been studs this way—a hul cavayurd o’ them.
Geehosofat!
I hope they hain’t—”
“Haven’t what?”
“Gone arter Spotty.
If they hev, then thur will be danger to Miss Peintdexter.
Come on!”
Without waiting for a rejoinder, the hunter started off at a shambling trot, followed by Calhoun, who kept calling to him for an explanation of his ambiguous words.
Zeb did not deign to offer any—excusing himself by a backward sweep of the hand, which seemed to say,
“Do not bother me now: I am busy.”
For a time he appeared absorbed in taking up the trail of the shod horses—not so easily done, as it was in places entirely obliterated by the thick trampling of the stallions.
He succeeded in making it out by piecemeal—still going on at a trot.
It was not till he had arrived within a hundred yards of the arroyo that the serious shadow disappeared from his face; and, checking the pace of his mare, he vouchsafed the explanation once more demanded from him.
“Oh! that was the danger,” said Calhoun, on hearing the explanation. “How do you know they have escaped it?”
“Look thur!”
“A dead horse!
Freshly killed, he appears?
What does that prove?”
“That the mowstanger hes killed him.”
“It frightened the others off, you think, and they followed no further?”
“They follered no further; but it wa’n’t adzackly thet as scared ’em off. Thur’s the thing as kep them from follerin’.
Ole Hickory, what a jump!”