Noting that the signs turned to the left, he did the same. A dozen paces brought him to a depression through which it seemed likely the pony had gone. He followed and coming up the opposite side made sure by lighting another match. The footprints were not visible. He retraced his steps and went farther to the left. Coming to a level spot, he resorted to his tiny torch again. He was right: Bucephalus had chosen the easier course, though how the sagacious animal knew of its existence was beyond guessing. By this time Alden understood that at the rate he was using his matches, they could not last beyond an hour or less. He slackened his pace and studied his surroundings with the utmost care. Only when absolutely necessary did he intend to ignite his lucifers. He had never heard of the methods employed by veteran trailers, though Shagbark had practised them, but reflection caused Alden to try this one. He stooped and gently passed one hand over the soft earth. A few minutes of effort told him he was on the trail of the pony. He had straightened up and was walking cautiously, when he was startled by the reports of several rifles fired so nearly together that he could not tell the number. They came from a point diagonally in front, but at a considerable distance. He paused, undecided what to do. There was no guessing the meaning of the alarm, but naturally he accepted the worst construction. The guns must have been discharged by Indians with a sinister purpose. Probably one of the Pony Express Riders had fallen, as others had fallen before him and others were to fall in the remaining months of the service. Alden paused for ten or more minutes and then resumed his tramp. It seemed to him that the spot where the guns were fired was well to the right. Still it was likely the trail veered in that direction, for no mortal man ever saw a path that was straight, unless laid out by compass and rule. There was an additional reason for not lighting a match, for it might catch the eye of some of the dusky prowlers. Consequently Alden pushed on stealthily and slowly. Frequently he paused and listened. The trail could change without his being aware of it, for in his situation he had no means of judging. His bright wits were ever on a strain and when he came to a series of boulders, he again stooped and felt of the ground. The soil was pebbly and the sense of feeling did not help him. He hesitated to light a match, for he knew he was near the spot whence had come the sounds of rifle firing. He straightened up and listened. A gentle wind stirred the willows in front, the faint murmur of the mountain stream behind him came softly to his ears, but all else was profound silence. He had peered into the star gleam in front for some minutes when the conviction gradually came to him that something not a boulder or stone was lying a few paces away. He could not identify it without a nearer approach, and after a little wait he stepped forward on tiptoe.