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.