, sharing it.

"Odd it air!" mutters Sime, with an ominous shake of the head.
"Tarnashun odd! Whar kin they hev been, an' whar hev they goed?"

"Maybe back, across the river?" suggests Heywood.

"Unpossible. Thar ain't time. They'd be wadin' now, an' we'd see 'em.
No. They're on this side yit, if anywhar on airth; the last bein' the
doubtful."

"Supposin' they've taken the trace we came by? They might while we were
up the road."

"By the jumpin' Jeehosofat!" exclaims Woodley, startled by this second
suggestion, "I never thought o' that. If they hev, thar's our horses,
an' things. Let's back to camp quick as legs kin take us."

"Stay!" interposes Clancy, whose senses are not confused by any
unearthly fancies. "I don't think they could have gone that way. There
may be a trail up the bank, and they've taken it. There must be, Sime.
I never knew a stream without one."

"Ef there be, it's beyont this child's knowledge. I hain't noticed
neery one. Still, as you say, sech is usooal, ef only a way for the
wild beasts. We kin try for it."

"Let us first make sure whether they came out here at all. We didn't
watch them quite in to the shore."

Saying this, Clancy steps down to the water's edge, the others with him.

They have no occasion to stoop. Standing erect they can see hoof-marks,
conspicuous, freshly made, filled with water that has fallen from the
fetlocks.

Turning, they easily trace them up the shelving bank; but not so easily
along the road, though certain they continue that way. It is black as
pitch beneath the shadowing trees. Withal, Woodley is not to be thus
baffled. His skill as a tracker is proverbial among men of his calling;
moreover, he is chagrined at their ill success so far; and, but for
there being no time, the ex-jailer, its cause, would catch it. He does
in an occasional curse, which might be accompanied by a cuff, did he not
keep well out of the backwoodsman's way.

Dropping on all fours, Sime feels for hoof-prints of the horses that
have just crossed, groping in darkness. He can distinguish them from
all others by their being wet. And so does, gaining ground, bit by bit,
surely if slowly.

But Clancy has conceived a more expeditious plan, which he makes known,
saying:

"No need taking all that trouble, Sime. You may be the best trailer in
Texas; and no doubt you are, for a biped: still here's one can beat
you."

"Who?" asks the backwoodsman, rising erect, "show