CHAPTER XLIX. 



AT THE VILLAGE. 



^jl ACK HARVEY, having discovered the footprints of Dick Brownell among those 

 Jj made by the barefooted Korahs, thrilled his companions by his announcement 

 of the fact. 



The signs, he said, proved that the missing lad, instead of having fallen a prey 

 to wild beasts, was undoubtedly alive, though a captive, and while there was life 

 there was hope. 



Immediately after uttering the inspiring words, the Texan bent his head and 

 made another circuit of the camp, with the same care as before. This was with a 

 view to finding how many composed the party of natives. It was beyond the power 

 of even so skillful a scout as Jack Harvey to settle this question, though, as you will 

 observe, he hit it closely when he set down the number as about a dozen. 



All the footprints which he saw had been made since the storm of the night 

 before, and nothing could have been easier than to trace them from the back of his 

 mustang. Indeed, had the cowboy been alone, he probably would have done so, 

 while holding his horse at a gallop. 



In trailing an enemy, the wise scout does something more than trace his foot- 

 steps over the ground. If he keeps his head bent and his eyes fixed on the earth, 

 he is liable to run into the very ambush that may have been set for him. A trained 

 Indian trailer, like Jack Harvey, scans the country through which the footprints 

 lead and never forgets the danger from ambuscades and tricks of the enemy. 



Nothing was clearer in the present instance than that no ambuscade threatened, 

 but the veteran of the border often achieves astonishing success by pushing his 

 pursuit on what may be called general principles. 



That is, instead of keeping to the trail, he satisfies himself as to the destination 

 of the person he is following. If the tracker understands the country, he is quite 

 sure of some crossing of a stream, some pass in the mountains, or some excellent 

 hiding-place for which his foe is making by a roundabout course, so as to throw his 

 pursuer off the track. 



Leaving the trail, therefore, the sagacious scout " cuts across " the country, and 

 probably reaches the goal of the fugitive hours in advance of him. 



An old comrade of Kit Carson told me he once rode all night with that fine 

 scout, in pursuit of some thieving Kiowas. Carson was so well satisfied of the 

 point toward which the rascals were aiming, that he left the trail at sunset and 

 took a course almost at right angles. It saved over a dozen miles, provided he 

 was right, as he said would be proven at sunrise, but if wrong, it insured the-escape 

 of the marauders. 



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