"Well, we ain't met this Injun," said Rennie, "so he's travelin' the same way we are. Maybe he's just one of a bunch that's in here huntin'.

But I was tellin' you about how old Paul Sam come to Angus' wife's place last night. He was lookin' for Blake. 'Course you heard what was said about Blake and his granddaughter. I just wondered."

Bush removed his hat and scratched his head.

"By gosh, I wonder!" he observed. "He's mighty old, but it might be. He ain't no fish-eatin' flat-face Siwash. He's a horse Injun--one of the old stock. But he is darn old."

"He thought a heap of the girl," said Rennie. "He sent her to school. He was goin' to make her all same white girl."

"Uh-huh!" Bush growled. "A lot of darn fools think they can do tricks like that. But she's a job for the Almighty. Well, if this is the old buck, he couldn't go on a better last war-trail, and I wish him a heap of luck. Now let's get goin'."

Night found them at the foot of the range they had crossed. They were now in the valley of the Klimminchuck, a fast stream of the proportions of a river, fed by tributary creeks. Across it rose mountains, range on range, nameless, cut by valleys, pockets, basins and creeks. Their area resembled a tumbled sea. It was a mountain wilderness, little known, unmapped, much as it came from the hands of the Creator.

And yet in this wilderness there were trails. Up tributary creeks hunters had made them for short distances, but they soon petered out.

Beyond, into the heart of the hills, were other faintly marked routes, scarcely trails but ways of traverse, by which at various and widely separated times man had penetrated into these solitudes and even crossed them entirely.

All the men knew something of this mountain area, but Rennie's knowledge was the most extensive. His was the restlessness, the desire to see something of what lay beyond, of the pioneer. He had made long incursions, alone. Bush leaned on this knowledge. Around the fire that night, pipes alight, they held council.

"They've turned up river," said Bush. "If they keep on for the head waters they get into mighty bad country, hey, Dave?"

"Mighty bad," Rennie agreed. "They couldn't get no place."

"And they ain't outfitted to winter. Do they know she's bad up there?"

"Sure they know. Anyhow, Gavin does. My tumtum is they'll ford above here and try for a clean get-away, maybe up Copper Creek, right across the mountains."

"Can they make it?"

"They might. Depends on what they know of the country, and what luck they have."

"With horses?"

"Well, they might."

"How far have you ever gone yourself?"

"I been up to where the Copper heads and over the divide and on a piece."

"Good travelin'?"

"No, darn mean."

"Trail?"

"Only a liar would call it a trail. Still, you can get along if you're careful."

"Could they have gone farther?"

"Sure."

"Did you ever hear of anybody gettin' plum' through, say to Cache River, that way?"

"I've heard of it--yes. Old Pete Jodoin claimed he made her. And one time I run onto an old Stoney buck and he told me how, long ago, his people used to come down huntin' onto this here Klimmin, but they don't do it no more."

"Pete Jodoin was an old liar," said Bush, "and so's any Stoney, on gen'ral principles. But it's funny the places you can go if you know how. Think these French boys would know enough to make a trip like that?"

"Gavin knows a lot about these hills," Rennie replied. "He's hunted in 'em a lot by himself. He can pack near as much as a pony, and it's darn hard to say where he went and didn't go."

"Well," said Bush, "I only hope we don't lose their trail."

So far the trail had been plain, the hoof marks on it visible. But on bad ground this would not be the case. There would be no trail, in the sense of a path, and the trail in the sense of hoof-marks might disappear entirely. Therefore it was important to ascertain if they could the line of flight, so that if signs temporarily ceased there might be a possibility of finding them again further on.

But in the morning the trail of the fugitives led straight to the ford, crossed it and held up the farther side. They came to the mouth of Copper Creek, a delta with much gravel wash, but the trail of the fugitives, in place of turning the Copper, led straight on up the valley trail. A couple of miles on, just after crossing a patch of rocky ground, Turkey who was in the lead pulled up and dismounted.

"What's the matter, kid?" Bush asked.

"Matter!" Turkey exclaimed. "Why there isn't a shod horse in this bunch of tracks we're following."

Investigation showed that Turkey was right. They had been riding on the tracks of unshod horses, presumably of an Indian hunting party. And as they had trampled on these with their own shod horses it was going to be hard to ascertain just how far they had gone on this false trail. But Rennie had his own idea of a short cut.

"They made the side jump somewheres on these here rocks," he said. "They figgered we'd go h.e.l.lin' along on the tracks of them barefoots. Now this bad ground is the end of that there shoulder you see, and she runs back and dips down on the other side to the Copper."

"Sounds reas'nable," Bush admitted, "Then we go back to the Copper."

The two were standing together apart from the others.

"Look over there," said Rennie, "and line up this rock with that lone cottonwood. What do you see?"

Bush looked along the line indicated. "By gosh," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "that cottonwood's _blazed_!"

"Blazed both sides," Rennie informed him. "I been there. And further on there's another tree blazed. Fresh."

"Lord--ee!" said Bush. "Them French boys wouldn't do that. You think it's the old buck?"

Rennie nodded. "He's wiser 'n we are; also closer to 'em. He's playin' a lone hand, so he has to wait his chance at Blake. He figgers Angus will be after Blake, and as he may run into bad luck himself he wants to make sure somebody lands him. He don't know why the other boys are there, but he knows there must be some good reason, because they're in a hurry and tryin' to hide their trail. So on gen'ral principles he blazes that cottonwood where he strikes their tracks where they've turned off, and keeps goin'."

"Uh-huh!" Bush agreed. "I guess we better not tell them Mackay boys about the Injun. They'd be for crowdin' things, and likely mess 'em up.

They don't want n.o.body to get ahead of 'em. I wish I hadn't told 'em what old Braden said. But it seemed right they should know."

"So it is right," said Rennie. "Adam Mackay hadn't no gun. She was murder. Only thing, I don't savvy it bein' Gavin French. Givin' the devil his due, he's all _man_. And Braden was such a darn liar. Well, there's many a card lost in the shuffle turns up in the deal."

CHAPTER XLIV

THE RED AVENGER

Many miles beyond the head waters of Copper Creek four men rode along the crest of a spa.r.s.ely timbered summit. Their horses were weary, gaunted with scant, frost-burnt feed. The riders were unkempt, unshaven, their eyes reddened by much staring into distances and the ceaseless pour of the mountain winds. The wind was now blowing strongly. It was very cold, and they bent against it, their hats pulled low, their collars high. Along the summit on which they rode and even along its flanks lay thin snow, the first of the coming winter. But above, on the higher ranges, it lay thickly white on the peaks and in the great gulches, promise of the twenty or thirty or forty feet of it which would fall before Spring, as it had fallen on that high roof of the world for ages.