THE LOST TRAIL.
With the dawn of day, Archibald Hawksley emerged from the house, and set
about his morning duties. Though he noticed the door was unbarred, he
thought Fanny had forgot to secure it.
But he was not long deceived. As he entered the stable, a cry of rage
and surprise burst from his lips. Before him lay the stiff and mangled
body of his faithful mastiff.
One glance round the interior told him the stranger’s horse was missing,
though all the others were safe. Scarcely knowing what to think, he
rushed toward the house, where he was met by his wife, pale and
agitated.
“Father, where is Fannie?”
Pale and stern, with blazing eyes, the settler dashed up the stairs and
burst open the door of the room assigned to their late guest. It was
empty. The bed had not been pressed that night. With a groan of
heartfelt despair, he sunk into a chair. Though he knew not the cause of
its being dealt him, he realized the full force of the blow.
“Father, where is Fannie?” repeated the pale and trembling wife,
creeping to his side.
The voice and soft touch roused the stricken settler. In a moment he was
himself again. With a desperate effort he regained his usual coolness,
and set about the task that lay before him.
“God only knows, but I will find her. That man—that devil must have
stole her. Fool that I was, to let his lying tongue so blind me! But he
shall pay for it, by my hopes of heaven! I swear that I will have his
heart’s blood for this!”
“Oh! Fannie—my child, my poor child!” gasped the bereaved mother, for
the first time realizing the full weight of this new blow.
“Peace, Esther,” coldly added Hawksley, though the unnatural glitter in
his eyes, and the feverish flush upon his face told how severe must be
the effort at composure. “Weeping and wailing will do no good here. We
must _work_. Do you go down and send the children round to the neighbors
with the tidings. Bid them come here at once, ready for work. I will
take his trail, and you can send them after me as they come in. I will
leave plenty of signs so that they can easily overtake me. Be sure and
send to Campbell’s for Ned. Go now—there is no time to lose. I must look
first if he left any clue.”
Mrs. Hawksley, her terror and despair momentarily stilled by the stern
and peremptory words of her husband, hastened down-stairs to dispatch
the children, as directed, for assistance. Hawksley, cool and collected,
began slowly searching the two chambers, in hope of finding some clue to
the real object of the abductor.
This second blow, following so closely upon the disappearance of his
only grown son, instead of crushing him to the earth, seemed to call
forth all his energies, and to fit him for the difficult task that lay
before him. Nothing was forgotten or overlooked.
He was disappointed in his search, for nothing was found that could
assist him in the quest. Then descending the stairs, he bade his wife
fill his saddle-bags with food, his canteen with strong coffee, while he
made ready his horse. Ten minutes later he was in the saddle, renewing
his instructions regarding his neighbors when they should arrive.
He rode out from the yard, and making a broad circuit, quickly struck
the trail. There could be no mistaking this, for it lay plainly
imprinted upon the dew-moistened ground. Dismounting, he closely
examined each of the four hoof-prints, registering them indelibly upon
his memory.
“I’ll not forget,” he muttered, swinging himself once more into the
saddle. “Large hoofs, shod in front; a triangular chip broken from the
inside edge of the off hind foot. Now it only remains to follow the
trail to its end. Sooner or later we must meet, and then, Mark Haley—if
that be your name—beware! As God hears me, I will kill you without
mercy! And if—if harm has come to my poor child, I’ll torture you so
that the most devilish red-skin would blush for shame at his ignorance!”
Bending low in the saddle, Hawksley rode on at a rapid gallop, his keen
eye, sharpened by a knowledge of his child’s peril, picking up the trail
unerringly. Straight as the flight of a crow, for miles, led the trace.
Hawksley’s brow darkened as he noted this. The abductor seemed striking
for the broad, unsettled prairie. Could it be that he was one of those
fiendish renegades who found a refuge among the Kiowas? He could think
of no other solution for the abductor taking such a course.
“Never mind—’twill only be the easier to trail him, if he keeps away
from the settled track. Ha! what is that?”
Checking his horse he bent down and picked up a circular patch of cloth,
covered with some sticky substance. A groan broke from his lips as he
divined the use it had been put to. One mystery was cleared up: that why
Fannie had not given the alarm while being taken from her home.
“Curse him!” hissed Hawksley, hurling the bit of plaster away. “Curse my
blindness in not seeing through his mask. Poor Fred’s fate should have
taught me more caution. But never mind—my time will come.”
The settler, with flashing eyes and close-set teeth, continued his
course, picking up the trail with tolerable ease for one so little
versed in the art as he was. He knew, by the position of the
hoof-prints—they being planted one in a place, from eight to ten feet
apart—that at this point Mark Haley had been advancing rapidly, at a
gallop. In trotting, there would be two hoof-prints close together, one
almost obliterated by the other, or, just the same as made while in a
walk, save of larger stride.
Hawksley, by this fact, could guess pretty closely at the speed
maintained by the abductor, and though he knew that his own progress was
much slower, still he did not despair of overtaking the man. Doubly
loaded, the fugitive must pause soon, if only to rest his horse.
The sun was two hours high, when a sight met the father’s eye that
caused a cold thrill to pervade his veins. For a moment he reeled in his
saddle, and almost fell to the ground, but then, with pale face and
starting eyeballs, he plunged spurs deep into his horse’s flanks, and
dashed madly forward.
A score or more dark, slowly-circling forms were hovering over the
prairie directly before him, in close proximity to where the trail must
lead, unless it swerved abruptly to one side or the other. The shadowy
shapes were those of vultures, buzzards, crows—those filthy yet useful
scavengers of the prairies.
They told the experienced settler a significant tale. They told him that
death was before him, along the trail. That they were collecting round a
horrible feast that had been prepared for them.
In his agony of fear, Hawksley believed that he was about to behold the
dead and mangled remains of his child. Fearing this, with mad shouts he
dashed forward, brandishing his arms wildly.
The filthy birds heard him and in silence widened their circles, rising
higher and higher, joined by others that rose heavily from the ground
seemingly loth to quit the spot. A brace of coyotes slunk away, howling
lugubriously, with drooping tail and snarling teeth.
A heart-sickening sight lay before him, as he mechanically wrenched his
horse to a standstill. A groan of agonized apprehension broke from his
pallid lips as he reeled rather than sprung from his saddle.
One glance was all that he could give—then he sunk to the ground, bowing
his head upon his knees, shuddering convulsively, like one suddenly
stricken with a chill. The horrible truth seemed plain to him—he
believed that before him lay strewn the remains of Fannie, his child.
The greensward was trampled and torn, stained here and there with
crimson blotches that showed where veins had been drained of their
life-blood. Around were scattered white and gleaming bones, already
dismembered and clean-picked by the teeth of coyotes and beaks of birds.
Tattered and torn, he saw a bright, particolored patchwork quilt that he
knew had covered his daughter’s bed. Further to one side was a fragment
of her dress, also blood-stained.
Hawksley remained thus, bowed down in mute agony, until the quickly
repeating thud of horses’ hoofs approaching in rapid gallop roused him.
Then he clutched his rifle and glared around, his bloodshot eyes blazing
with vengeance.
“Hold! Hawksley—don’t fire—we’re friends,” cried a loud, clear voice
that he recognized through the blind passion that possessed him.
Slowly he lowered his rifle, passing a hand across his eyes, as though
something obstructed his vision. He did not return the salutation, nor
speak a word as the two young men rode up, but silently pointed a finger
toward the ghastly relics that strewed the sward.
“My God! what is this?” gasped Ned Campbell, reeling in his saddle,
shrinking back as a horrible fear struck to his heart.
Zeb Ruel—his companion—did not speak, but dismounted and slowly
approached the spot. Leaning upon his rifle Hawksley closely watched his
movements, a convulsive tremor agitating his frame as Ruel coolly picked
up one of the gnawed and disfigured skulls, turning it about and viewing
it from different sides.
With a grunt he tossed the fragment aside, then looked around for the
other—as one glance was enough to decide that at least two persons had
met their death at this point. His actions were vastly different here,
for this skull was smaller and more delicately shaped, such as one would
naturally supposed a woman’s to be.
Tremblingly the two men watched their companion. Upon him their hopes
depended. He was by far the most acute and experienced of the trio, and
besides was not so deeply interested as they. Hence his judgment was the
more apt to be reliable.
Zeb Ruel did not touch this skull. The two watchers thought he seemed
afraid to, and their hearts sunk still lower.
Whistling softly he strode slowly around the stained and trampled spot.
He examined the blanket, then the fragment of Fannie’s dress. There were
other pieces of cloth, evidently from garments worn by a man. Several
large buttons, and the texture of the cloth proved that.
Abruptly pausing he poked at some object with the butt of his rifle.
Whatever it was seemed wound round a fragment of bone. Stooping, he
gingerly freed it with his fingers, then held it aloft, critically eying
it.
Campbell and Hawksley both uttered little cries. They could see that it
was a mass of hair, though the dust that covered it, disguised the
color.
Shaking it gently, Ruel examined it closely. A long whistle, expressive
of surprise, broke from his lips.
“What is it, Ruel?” faltered Hawksley.
“See! a skelp—no, by thunder! it’s a false b’ard!” was the astonished
reply.
“Let me see,” and Hawksley snatched the article from Zeb’s hands.
“Yes—it is his! He—Mark Haley wore this, and I—cursed fool that I am!—I
thought it natural! Then it is true, as I feared—they are both dead!
Fannie, my darling child—oh God!” and sinking to the ground, the
stricken father burst into tears.
“Don’t bother him, Ned,” hastily muttered Ruel, as Campbell sprung from
his horse. “It’ll be the savin’ o’ him—them tears. He’d go plum crazy
else—an’ no wonder, nuther. First Fred, now the gal.”
“Then you think—” faltered Campbell, chokingly.
“But we don’t _know_,” was the hasty reply, for Ruel knew in what
relation the young couple stood to each other, and dreaded the result.
“An’ I never give up hope while thar’s a chance left. She _may_ be
rubbed out; I don’t say she isn’t. But why—who by? Surely the fellow
wasn’t cussed fool enough to kill her an’ then hisself? You see _some
one_ must ’a’ helped—an’ that’s jest what we must look for now. You must
help—you’re good on the trail—an’ it’ll keep you from gittin’ as _he_
is. Go that way—I’ll go this. Look cluss round the aidges o’ the
trampled spot. Mebbe we kin find sunkthin’ to pay us.”
Separating, the two young men crouched low down, carefully and
thoroughly scrutinizing every inch of the ground for several yards
beyond the edge of the torn and trampled spot. Their search was
successful, for at almost the same moment, a cry announced some
discovery.
“What is it, Ned?” muttered Ruel, springing to his friend’s side.
“Prints of a horse’s hoofs at full gallop. See—they toe away, and—look!
See the blood-spots!”
“Sure enough—plenty, too. But now the question is—was thar anybody on
him? Right here he looks as if he was runnin’ loose-like. But let that
rest fer a bit, an’ come over an’ look at my find. I want your ’pinion
on it. Them pesky wolves hes ’most blotted it out.”
“It’s the print of a man wearing a boot,” muttered Campbell, after a
close scrutiny. “He is leaving this place—on a run. See how the toes cut
in?”
“Right—but—”
“With boots on, you say?” interrupted Hawksley, who had risen
unobserved.
“Yes, and large ones too.”
“Then _he_ did not make them, for he left his boots at the house, with
his empty saddle-bags.”
“Likely he took moccasins out o’ the bags, so’s to step easy,” suggested
Ruel.
“Hark! some one is coming.”
“Two, rather, from the sound. Yes—see; it’s Fenton an’ Morley. Jest in
time, boys,” he added, as the two men rode up to the spot. “We want you,
with Hawksley here, to take an’ foller up this trail, while Ned an’ I
look to t’other ’ne. Grupp the feller _alive_, mind ye. Whoever he is,
he kin tell all what happened here last night. Think you kin foller it,
Morley?”
“Ef any man kin, I kin,” quietly replied the little, weasen-featured
hunter, throwing his bridle-rein to Fenton.
“If you git him, send up a smoke o’ wet grass. We’ll see it, an’ we’ll
do the same if we git sure news fust.”
But little more was said. Hawksley had by this time entirely regained
his composure, and, though he firmly believed that his child was dead,
he resolved to bear up until he had drank deeply of revenge. He,
together with Fenton and Morley, set forward upon the trail, the old
hunter tracing it up with the certainty of a blood-hound.
Campbell rode his horse, leading that of Ruel, who preferred walking at
present, though the trail was plain enough to be followed from the
saddle. He was trying to decide whether the madly-fleeing horse was
ridden, or not; a difficult task at the best, unless by long trailing.
“It’s the crittur that is hurt,” muttered Zeb, after a while, “an’ that
too in the head or neck. ’Ca’se why? You see the drops o’ blood is
mostly scattered in a line, an’ on some o’ them is scattered dust an’
dirt. Then ag’in, you see them on the side, cl’ar o’ the trail;
see—here’s one. Now thar—thar’s two on _t’other_ side. He does that by
shaking his head. Ef he was hurt in the side, it’d be one-sided—the
blood, I mean. Hold—stop!”
Campbell abruptly pulled up, and Ruel closely scrutinized the ground for
a minute in silence. Then he arose and leaped into the saddle. He had
decided that the horse was ridden.
“You kin see it from here,” he added, in answer to Ned’s inquiring
looks. “See—it looks like the hoss had stumbled, then stopped half-way,
in a heap. The ground is smooth, he didn’t stumble because he was
growing fainty, for see—thar go his tracks es reg’lar es ever. Whoever
rid him, was in a powerful hurry. You see he jerked the reins an’ stuck
spurs in the brute so hard that it made him change his step. That’s what
made the blurr thar. Onless the hoss had been ridden, thar’d jist bin
one stumble, then the same clean step as afore.
“Now look well to your weepons,” he added, as he set forward at a hard
gallop. “Thar’s a man ahead o’ us, an’ he was mixed up in the scenes
back thar. Whoever he is we must take him; but don’t do no more’n
cripple the cuss.”
“We’re not far from the river, now.”
“No. The varmint is makin’ straight for it. The fool—a hoss thet hes
lost a bushel o’ blood like this ’ne hes, hain’t got no call tryin’ to
cross the ford _now_. I only hope he won’t drownd the man, too.”
As Campbell said, they were near the river that was spoken of in our
first chapter, as flowing close to the hunters’ bivouac. The ford was
almost directly opposite the camp, and the trail was running in a
bee-line for it.
“I knowed it—see, the tracks lead down into the water,” muttered Zeb,
his keen eyes searching the further banks. “Mebbe he crossed, but I
reckon he had to swim for it. Over we go—it’s the quickest way.”
The horses took willingly to the water, and though at one time they were
forced to swim desperately in the raging current, their strong limbs
prevailed and the two hunters were soon in safety at the other shore.
Zeb Ruel leaped into the shallow water, tossing his reins to Campbell,
saying: “Hold them, Ned. Mebbe I kin tell if he crossed clean over. I
marked his tracks.”
But the soft mud was so deeply cut and scarred by different hoof-prints
that he could not tell with certainty. Then the two men began closely
scrutinizing the ground between the river and the timber.
For full half an hour they searched without success. It was evident that
the horse had not crossed, and Paul was inclined to believe that the
rider had been swept off into the deep water below, when, hampered by
his wounded steed, his death would almost inevitably follow.
“Ha! look yonder!” cried Campbell, directing his companion’s attention
over the river to a tall column of dense black smoke.
“It’s the boys—they’ve found somethin’ on the other trail. We’d better
go back.”
As he uttered these words, the tall hunter suddenly paused, and bent his
ear to the ground for a moment. Then rising he glided swiftly toward the
arch-like opening between the two timber islands; reaching this he
beckoned vehemently for Campbell to follow.
“Look yonder!” he hissed, grasping Ned’s arm with convulsive force, his
other hand outstretched toward the open prairie.
“The woman—that strange rider—the one that decoyed Fred Hawksley from
us!” gasped Campbell, in wonderment.
“It’s her—shure! Kin you take her? Your critter’s fresh. Ketch her an’
you kin tell whar Fred’s gone to.”
“I’ll do it or kill my horse. Stand aside, Ruel,” excitedly muttered
Campbell.
“Easy—she’s comin’ closter. Look to your girth—see that it don’t fail ye
now. Ef you cain’t do better, drop ’ither her or her critter. Ha! she
has caught sight o’ you. Durn it! why didn’t we hide closter!”
It was true. Upon a ridge scarcely a mile distant was the strange woman,
riding the spotted mustang that had served her so well when Fred
Hawksley was in pursuit. The sun shining clearly, had outlined the two
hunters clearly against the open background, and she had evidently
caught sight of them, for she drew rein, gazing in their direction with
one hand shading her eyes.
As Campbell leaped upon his big bay horse, she wheeled the mustang and
dashed back over the swell like an arrow. Touching his mettled horse,
fairly warmed to his work by the morning’s ride, Ned sped swiftly over
the rolling prairie, almost in the same tracks that he had made a week
before, when pursuing the same creature. Would this chase end as
disastrously? His brow darkened and his teeth gritted fiercely as he
resolved to give the race a different termination.
A fierce joy filled the young ranger’s heart as the woman rider again
appeared in sight, for he could see that already he had lessened the
interval between them. Both animals evidently were fresh, and it was to
be a test of their superiority—a war of races.
As they topped the next swell, Campbell’s face changed, He it was that
was losing ground now. The spotted mustang stretched out like a
grayhound, was running with the speed and evenness of an arrow’s flight.
Bending forward, the strange rider seemed urging him on at top speed.
Campbell’s spurs dripped well with blood, and his voice added its
persuasion, but in vain. Slowly, surely the spotted mustang was drawing
away from the big horse.
Campbell uttered a furious curse as he noted this, but then a gleam
lighted up his countenance. The fugitive was heading directly for the
timber point where he had lost sight of her and Fred Hawksley, a week
previously.
Now, should she disappear as strangely as then, he would know that she
was concealed somewhere in the _baranca_, and it would go hard but that
he unearthed the mystery. With these thoughts, Ned urged his beast
forward, at its best pace.
As the woman neared the timber point, she turned her head and glanced
back over her shoulder. Campbell almost fancied that he could detect her
scornful, taunting laugh as she waved a hand toward him, then bending
forward, disappeared around the clump of trees.
“Now I will know—if she _is_ gone, then I have her foul. I’ll solve the
mystery of Fred’s disappearance, and that too before this day’s sun
sets!” he muttered, as his spurs rankled the big horse’s sides.
In a few moments he also rounded the point of trees, and abruptly pulled
up his horse, with a low cry. As he suspected, the prairie was open and
untenanted. The strange rider had disappeared.
But then as he glanced downward at the tracks of the spotted mustang,
Campbell saw that they turned abruptly to the right, running close to
the underbrush, instead of heading for the _baranca_. For a moment the
young hunter was disconcerted.