said, “Maybe a child’s foot could make a mark on it, but I don’t see
how.”
Young Stillman stepped outside, held the light to the ground, turned
leftward, and moved three steps, closely examining; then said, “I’ve got
the direction–come along; take the lantern, somebody.”
He strode off swiftly southward, the files following, swaying and bending
in and out with the deep curves of the gorge. Thus a mile, and the mouth
of the gorge was reached; before them stretched the sagebrush plain, dim,
vast, and vague. Stillman called a halt, saying, “We mustn’t start
wrong, now; we must take the direction again.”
He took a lantern and examined the ground for a matter of twenty yards;
then said, “Come on; it’s all right,” and gave up the lantern. In and
out among the sage-bushes he marched, a quarter of a mile, bearing
gradually to the right; then took a new direction and made another great
semicircle; then changed again and moved due west nearly half a mile–and
stopped.
“She gave it up, here, poor little chap. Hold the lantern. You can see
where she sat.”
But this was in a slick alkali flat which was surfaced like steel, and no
person in the party was quite hardy enough to claim an eyesight that
could detect the track of a cushion on a veneer like that. The bereaved
mother fell upon her knees and kissed the spot, lamenting.
“But where is she, then?” some one said. “She didn’t stay here. We can
see that much, anyway.”
Stillman moved about in a circle around the place, with the lantern,
pretending to hunt for tracks.
“Well!” he said presently, in an annoyed tone, “I don’t understand it.”
He examined again. “No use. She was here–that’s certain; she never
walked away from here–and that’s certain. It’s a puzzle; I can’t make
it out.”
The mother lost heart then.
“Oh, my God! oh, blessed Virgin! some flying beast has got her. I’ll
never see her again!”
“Ah, don’t give up,” said Archy. “We’ll find her–don’t give up.”
“God bless you for the words, Archy Stillman!” and she seized his hand
and kissed it fervently.
Peterson, the new-comer, whispered satirically in Ferguson’s ear:
“Wonderful performance to find this place, wasn’t it? Hardly worth while
to come so far, though; any other supposititious place would have
answered just as well–hey?”
Ferguson was not pleased with the innuendo. He said, with some warmth:
“Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn’t been here? I tell you
the child has been here! Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a
little fuss as–”
“All right!” sang out Stillman. “Come, everybody, and look at this! It
was right under our noses all the time, and we didn’t see it.”
There was a general plunge for the ground at the place where the child
was alleged to have rested, and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see
the thing that Archy’s finger was resting upon. There was a pause, then
a several-barreled sigh of disappointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich
said, in the one breath:
“What is it, Archy? There’s nothing here.”
“Nothing? Do you call that nothing?” and he swiftly traced upon the
ground a form with his finger. “There–don’t you recognize it now? It’s
Injun Billy’s track. He’s got the child.”
“God be praised!” from the mother.
“Take away the lantern. I’ve got the direction. Follow!”
He started on a run, racing in and out among the sage-bushes a matter of
three hundred yards, and disappeared over a sand-wave; the others
struggled after him, caught him up, and found him waiting. Ten steps
away was a little wickiup, a dim and formless shelter of rags and old
horse-blankets, a dull light showing through its chinks.
“You lead, Mrs. Hogan,” said the lad. “It’s your privilege to be first.”
All followed the sprint she made for the wickiup, and saw, with her, the
picture its interior afforded. Injun Billy was sitting on the ground;
the child was asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a wild
embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the grateful tears running down
her face, and in a choked and broken voice she poured out a golden stream