CHAPTER VI.

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.