Orrin led the way up a dim trail into the trees. Here and there were dense stands of forest, then scatterd trees and meadows with frequent small lakes and pools. They scattered out, keeping within sight of one another but watching for tracks.
“Mr. Sackett?” Haney called out.
Orrin turned his horse and cantered over to where the tall man waited. Haney indicated the grass at his feet.
There was a place by a rotting log where a part of the grass was pressed down, and there were flecks of what appeared to be blood on the grass and the leaves. “Looks like somebody has been lyin’ here, maybe a few days back.”
“Horse tracks?”
“Don’t see none. I reckon he was afoot. My guess would be he was bad hurt He got this far an’ just collapsed.”
“Then what?”
“Well, there’s a track.” He pointed to their north. “I figure he came out of it and started on.”
Leading their horses, they followed the tracks. Charlie Fleming was some distance away, and Orrin stood for a moment, watching him. He seemed to be studying the ground as he moved.
“Haney,” Orrin said, “walk careful. If this is some of our boys, and they’re hurt, they’ll be wary of trouble.”
“I soldiered with Tell, remember? He never shot at anything he couldn’t see. He wasn’t one of those damned fools who heard a noise and just blasted away.”
The trail was dim and old. Whoever the wounded man was, he made over two hundred yards before he fell. They found the place where he went to his knees, then had fallen forward on his face. There had been a struggle to rise; then the fallen man had subsided and lay still for some time.
However, they found no blood on the grass. Orrin looked carefully around, searching the brush, the trees, and the grass for some indication of movement. He saw none. He looked around for Charlie Fleming, but the rider was nowhere in sight.
He moved on, taking his time, missing nothing. The wounded man had gotten back to his feet and was moving at a somewhat better pace.
“He’s feelin’ some better,” Haney suggested.
“Either that or he suspects he’s being followed and wants to hide,” Orrin said.
He paused again, looking carefully around. Suddenly, he grunted and ran rapidly forward, stopping at a small cairn of three stones. Gently, he lifted off the first one, then the second.
There, placed neatly across the face of the second stone, were three parallel blades of grass.
“It’s Tyrel,” Orrin said.
Haney looked at the small pile of scarcely noticeable rocks. “I don’t see how —!”
Orrin held up the three blades of grass. “He is the third son of my father. If there had been but one blade of grass, it would have been Tell.”
“And two?”
“Me,” Orrin said. “We started it when we were youngsters, playing and hunting in the woods. Tell began it when he was about nine so we boys could follow him in the woods and also so we could find our way back. Most of us have some such system, and it saves a lot of time and trouble.”
“Don’t tell you where he is, though.”
“It will if he doesn’t pass out.”
“What if nobody ever comes along?”
Orrin merely glanced at him. “A Sackett always knows one of us will be along. He knows that sooner or later a Sackett will find the trail, and if at the end of it he finds a dead man, there will be some indication of who was responsible.”
Haney swore softly. “I’ll be damned!”
“No, but the man responsible will.”
“How long’s this been going on?”
“One way or another, for more than two hundred years. Oh, here and there somebody fails, but that’s rare. Mostly they come through. Mostly they stick to the family tradition of helping one another.
“Tell started this system, but he had heard of it from pa. That is, he heard of something like it. This was his own idea. It doesn’t have to be rocks and grass, it can be twigs, knots tied in grass, leaves, scratches on tree bark — ah!” He pointed.
At the side of a fallen branch was a sharp, triangular piece of slate, pointing off to the northwest.
“Could be an accident,” Haney said skeptically.
“It could be. If so, we’ll have to come back to this point and start over.”
They hurried on, walking faster now. Haney was also alert, watching. It was he who saw the next mark, faint though it was. Simply three scratches on the bark of a tree.
Haney stopped. “Say! Where’s Fleming?”
“He went off to the west. We’ll find him later.”
“I don’t trust him too much,” Haney said.
“Neither do I.”
Orrin stopped abruptly. The tracks of three horsemen came down from the east and crossed the trail of Tyrel Sackett. Three hard-ridden horses, all shod.
“Be careful!” Haney lifted his rifle. “Those tracks are fresh!”
They faded into the brush, took the time to look around carefully, then followed the trail they had found.
Orrin stopped suddenly, studying the terrain ahead. The way seemed to lead along the side of a low hill that sloped down to a lake with a sandy shore. On the side of the hill were several clusters of trees. One of the clusters, a little higher and farther back, grew up among some rocks. There was a clump of brush and smaller trees, then two tall ones joined by a third somewhat smaller but close to the other two.
“We’ve found him,” Orrin said.
Haney just looked, and they rode on, scrambling their horses up the bank to the clump of trees and brush.
They found him there, sprawled on fallen leaves, one hand still clutching a stick he had used to help him along. There was blood on the top of his shoulder near his neck where a bullet had cut through the muscle, and his right leg was swollen to almost twice its normal size. He had split the pants leg to ease the binding effect on the swollen leg, which showed black and blue through the gaping hole.
“Haney,” Orrin said, “you ride back to the carts and get a spare horse. Keep your eyes open for Fleming on the way back, and tell the boys to sit tight and guard the cattle. I won’t try to move him tonight. Bring the horse up in the morning.”
When Haney had ridden off, Orrin cleared a place of leaves, scraping them well back, and then he put together a small fire of twigs and bits of bark. The flame was too small and too well hidden by the trunks of the trees and the brush to be seen. As for the smoke, it would be dissipated by rising through the foliage of the trees until spread so thin as to be invisible.
He made a bed of piled leaves, and with water from his canteen he bathed the wound. It was going to be troublesome but not dangerous, and from past experience he knew the dangers of infection were few in the fresh pure air of the western country.
When he had made Tyrel comfortable, he led his horse to water at the lake, then let him graze on a small patch of grass not far from the cluster of trees where he could watch both the horse and Tyrel. When it started to become dark, he led the horse into the brush, which was some protection from the mosquitoes, and settled down beside his small fire.
It was then he thought to check Tyrel’s six-shooter. Four chambers had been fired; two remained loaded. He reloaded the empty chambers and thrust the gun back into its holster.
He might have been shooting to try to turn the stampede; if not, somebody was dead.
Darkness made a mystery of the forest and goblins of the trees.
He added a knot to the coals and dozed with arabesques of shadow-play upon his dark, hawklike features.
A whisper of sound, the faint crunching of a branch, and his eyes opened wide, and his gun slid into his hand. Something black and ominous loomed in the open space between two trees. His gun was up, his thumb ready on the hammer. It was Tyrel’s line-back dun.
Chapter XV
Highpockets Haney reached the group of trees before the first light, but Orrin already had Tyrel on the dun.
“See anybody?”
“Not a soul.” He paused. “Fleming was in camp, wondering what had become of us. He brought in two, three head of young stuff he found in the brush.”
“No sign of anybody else?”
“He says he saw nothing.”
Tyrel was obviously suffering from a mild concussion, and when he became conscious, he showed no disposition to talk. When asked about Tell, he merely shrugged. The stampede had caught them scattered about the herd, and they had remained scattered.