"I see you don't understan' me," pursues Borlasse in explanation. "It's
easy enough; but we must mount at once, an' make after him. He won't so
readily find his way acrosst the cut-rock plain. An' I tell yez, boys,
it's our only chance."
There are dissenting voices. Some urge the danger of going back that
way. They may meet the outraged settlers.
"No fear of them yet," argues the chief, "but there will be if the
nigger meets them. We needn't go on to the San Saba. If we don't
overtake him 'fore reachin' the cottonwood, we'll hev' to let him slide.
Then we can hurry back hyar, an' go down the creek to the Colorado."
The course counselled, seeming best, is decided on.
Hastily saddling their horses, and stowing the plunder in a place where
it will be safe till their return, they mount, and start off for the
upper plain.
Silence again reigns around the deserted camp; no human voice there--no
sound, save the calling of the wild turkeys, that cannot awake that
ghastly sleeper.
At the same hour, almost the very moment, when Borlasse and his
freebooters, ascending from Coyote Creek, set foot on the table plain, a
party of mounted men, coming up from the San Saba bottom, strikes it on
the opposite edge. It is scarce necessary to say that these are the
pursuing settlers. Dupre at their head. Hardly have they struck out
into the sterile waste, before getting bewildered, with neither trace
nor track to give them a clue to the direction. But they have with them
a surer guide than the foot-prints of men, or the hoof-marks of horses--
their prisoner Bill Bosley.
To save his life, the wretch told all about his late associates and is
now conducting the pursuers to Coyote Creek.
Withal, he is not sure of the way; and halts hesitatingly.
Woodley mistaking his uncertainty for reluctance, puts a pistol to his
head, saying:--
"Bill Bosley! altho' I don't make estimate o' yur life as more account
than that o' a cat, it may be, I spose, precious to yurself. An' ye kin
only save it by takin' us strait to whar ye say Jim Borlasse an' his
beauties air. Show sign o' preevarication, or go a yurd's length out o'
the right track, an'--wal, I won't shoot ye, as I'm threetenin'. That
'ud be a death too good for sech as you. But I promise ye'll get yer
neck streetched on the nearest tree; an' if no tree turn up, I'll tie ye
to the tail o' my horse, an' hang ye that way. So, take yur choice. If
ye want to chaw any more corn, don't 'tempt playin' possum."
"I hain't no thought of it," protests Bosley, "indeed I hain't, Sime.
I'm only puzzled 'bout the trail from here. Tho' I've been accrost this
plain several times, I never took much notice, bein' with the others, I
only know there's a tree stands by itself. If we can reach that, the
road's easier beyont. I think it's out yonnerways."
He points in particular direction.
"Wal, we'll try that way," says Sime, adding: "Ef yer story don't prove
strait, there'll come a crik in yur neck, soon's it's diskivered to be
crooked. So waste no more words, but strike for the timmer ye speak
o'."
The alacrity with which Bosley obeys tells he is sincere.
Proof of his sincerity is soon after obtained in the tree itself being
observed. Far off they descry it outlined against the clear sky,
solitary as a ship at sea.
"Yonner it air, sure enuf!" says Woodley first sighting it. "I reck'n
the skunk's tellin' us the truth, 'bout that stick o' timber being a
finger-post. Tharfor, no more dilly-dallying but on to't quick as our
critters can take us. Thar's a man's life in danger; one that's dear to
me, as I reckon he'd be to all o' ye, ef ye knowed him, same's I do. Ye
heerd what the old kurnel sayed, as we war startin' out: _cost what it
mout, Charley Clancy air to be saved_. So put the prod to your
critters, an' let's on!"
Saying this, the hunter spurs his horse to its best speed; and soon all
are going at full gallop in straight course for the cottonwood.