ntersects the road, traversing it from side to side.
It is the channel of a rivulet when raining; but now nearly dry, its
bed a mortar of soft mud. They had crossed it coming in towards the
river, but without taking any notice of it, further than the necessity
of guiding their tired steeds to guard against their stumbling. It was
then in darkness, the twilight just past, and the moon not risen. Now
that she is up in mid heaven, it is flooded by her light, so that the
slightest mark in the mud can be clearly distinguished.

Running their eyes over its surface, they observe tracks they have not
been looking for, and more than they have reason to expect. Signs to
cause them surprise, if not actual alarm. Conspicuous are two deep
parallel ruts, which they know have been made by the wheels of the
emigrant wagons. A shower of rain, since fallen, has not obliterated
them; only washed off their sharp angles, having done the same with the
tracks of the mule teams between, and those of the half hundred horses
ridden alongside, as also the hoof-marks of the horned cattle driven
after.

It is not any of these that gives them concern. But other tracks more
recent, made since the ram--in fact, since the sun lose that same
morning--made by horses going towards the river, and with riders on
their backs. Over twenty in all, without counting their own; some of
them shod, but most without iron on the hoof. To the eyes of Sime
Woodley--to Clancy's as well--these facts declare themselves at a single
glance; and they only dwell upon further deductions. But not yet. For
while scanning the slough they see two sets of horse tracks going in the
opposite direction--outward from the river. Shod horses, too; their
hoof-prints stamped deep in the mud, as if both had been heavily
mounted.

This is a matter more immediate. The redskins, riding double, have gone
past. If they are to be overtaken, nor a moment must be spent thinking
of aught else.

Clancy has risen erect, ready to rush on after them. So Heywood and the
rest. But not Woodley, who, still stooping over the slough, seems
unsatisfied. And soon he makes a remark, which not only restrains the
others, but causes an entire change in their intention.

"They aint fresh," he says, speaking of the tracks last looked at.
"Thet is, they hain't been made 'ithin the hour. Tharfor, it can't be
them as hev jest crossed the stream. Take a squint at 'em, Charley."

Clancy, thus cal