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The
party
soon
after
came
up
with
the
tracker
,
waiting
to
conduct
them
along
a
fresh
trail
.
It
was
no
longer
a
track
made
by
two
horses
,
with
shod
hooves
.
The
turf
showed
only
the
hoof-marks
of
one
;
and
so
indistinctly
,
that
at
times
they
were
undiscernible
to
all
eyes
save
those
of
the
tracker
himself
.
The
trace
carried
them
through
the
thicket
,
from
glade
to
glade
--
after
a
circuitous
march
--
bringing
them
back
into
the
lane-like
opening
,
at
a
point
still
further
to
the
west
.
Spangler
--
though
far
from
being
the
most
accomplished
of
his
calling
--
took
it
;
up
as
fast
as
the
people
could
ride
after
him
.
In
his
own
mind
he
had
determined
the
character
of
the
animal
whose
footmarks
he
was
following
.
He
knew
it
to
be
a
mustang
--
the
same
that
had
stood
under
the
cottonwood
whilst
its
rider
was
smoking
a
cigar
--
the
same
whose
hoof-mark
he
had
seen
deeply
indented
in
a
sod
saturated
with
human
blood
.
The
track
of
the
States
horse
he
had
also
followed
for
a
short
distance
--
in
the
interval
,
when
he
was
left
alone
.
He
saw
that
it
would
conduct
him
back
to
the
prairie
through
which
they
had
passed
;
and
thence
,
in
all
likelihood
,
to
the
settlements
on
the
Leona
.
He
had
forsaken
it
to
trace
the
footsteps
of
the
shod
mustang
;
more
likely
to
lead
him
to
an
explanation
of
that
red
mystery
of
murder
--
perhaps
to
the
den
of
the
assassin
.
Hitherto
perplexed
by
the
hoof-prints
of
two
horses
alternately
overlapping
each
other
,
he
was
not
less
puzzled
now
,
while
scrutinising
the
tracks
of
but
one
.
They
went
not
direct
,
as
those
of
an
animal
urged
onwards
upon
a
journey
;
but
here
and
there
zigzagging
;
occasionally
turning
upon
themselves
in
short
curves
;
then
forward
for
a
stretch
;
and
then
circling
again
,
as
if
the
mustang
was
either
not
mounted
,
or
its
rider
was
asleep
in
the
saddle
!
Could
these
be
the
hoof-prints
of
a
horse
with
a
man
upon
his
back
--
an
assassin
skulking
away
from
the
scene
of
assassination
,
his
conscience
freshly
excited
by
the
crime
?
