By this thorny bush they found pony tracks, heading southward. They studied these tracks, until they were sure they should know them when seen anywhere; for, to the experienced eye of the plainsman, there is as much difference between the tracks made by different ponies as there is between the penmanship of different men. When they had done this much, and had followed the trail some distance, they returned to where old Nomad was caring for Bruce Clayton. The brief rest had done a world of good for the young man. He had walked by the stream, and so had got the stiffness and half paralysis out of his body and limbs. He was still “sore as a boil,” as he expressed it, but he had had something to eat and drink; and in his anxiety he now declared that he was himself again, and was ready to go on, wherever the scouts went. He was much encouraged by the report brought in by his friends, the two scouts. He looked anxiously at the shred of cloth which they showed, and then asked if he might have it. “I may never see her again!” he said simply, as he put it away in his pocket. Bruce’s horse was also in better condition now, and was almost as strong as the worn horses of the scout and his pards. Buffalo Bill was anxious to push on, now that he felt sure they had found the trail of the pony that had borne the girl away. Whether the man who was supposed to be with her on that pony’s back was Black John, or some one else, they, of course, did not know. In spite of the jaded condition of the horses, the chase that followed was really of a whirlwind character, as the previous one had been. If their quarry were Black John, they hoped to bring him in sight soon, and they drove their horses on without much mercy. As has been seen, at a time when Black John began to feel safe, he had found that these human bloodhounds were on his track and coming up rapidly. On gaining the valley where Black John had stopped to rest and cook some food, the evidences of his presence there was so fresh, and the signs of his quick flight so plain, that Buffalo Bill was sure he was not far ahead. Moreover, as his horse was carrying double, and was tired, as its trail showed, they began confidently to believe that in a short time they would be able to overhaul him and force him to surrender his fair prisoner. “Crowd ’im, Buffler!” said Nomad, with youthful enthusiasm. “We’re goin’ ter drive him inter a hole now mighty quick.” The next moment he was belaboring old Nebuchadnezzar, to get greater speed out of him. Thus they swept along, riding hard on the trail of the fugitive. The Indian pony took to a rocky gorge, where its hoofprints were not easily followed; but, as it could not have left the gorge, they rode straight on at top speed. “Go ’long, Nebby, you ole crow bait!” said Nomad. “Hyar I’ve allus been braggin’ on you bein’ a reg’lar bird with wings, when it come ter runnin’, and now you’re hurtin’ my feelin’s by turnin’ inter a snail. Go ’long!”