He was almost
ready to give up in despair, cursing himself for being such a fool as to
think that he could pick up a trail, when, clearly marked in a bit of
softer soil, he saw the print of a hob-nailed boot.
Instantly the man's weariness was gone. The long, hard way he had come was
forgotten. Insensible, now, to hunger and fatigue, he moved eagerly in the
direction the boot-track pointed. He was rewarded by another track. Then,
as he moved nearer the softer ground, toward the trees, another and
another and then--
The man--worn by his physical exertion, and by his days of mental
anguish--for a moment, lost control of himself. Clearly marked, beside the
broad track of the heavier, man's boot, was the unmistakable print of a
smaller, lighter foot.
For a moment he stood with clenched fists and heaving breast; then, with
grim eagerness, with every sense supernaturally alert, with nerves tense,
quick eyes and ready muscles, he went forward on the trail.
* * * * *
It was after dark, that night, when Brian Oakley, on his way back to Clear
Creek, stopped at the rock where the artist had left his note.
Reaching the floor of the canyon, he crossed to tell Myra Willard and the
novelist the result of the day's search.
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