Mad she
might be, but determined she was, and had deliberately dodged past
them at the Beaver, fearing opposition to her project. At two,
moreover, they found that she could "trail" as well as they, for among
the stunted cedars at the crest of a steep divide, they found the
print of the stout brogans worn by their infantry comrades, and, down
among the rocks of the next ravine, crushed bits of hardtack by a
"tank" in the hillside. She had stopped there long enough at least to
water Punch, then pushed on again.
Once more they saw her, not three miles ahead at four o'clock, just
entering a little clump of pines at the top of a steep acclivity. They
fired their rifles and shouted loud in hopes of halting her, but all
to no purpose. Night came down and compelled them to bivouac. They
built a big fire to guide the wanderers, but morning broke without
sign of them; so on they went, for now, away from the rocks the trail
was often distinct, and once again they found the pony hoof-prints and
thanked God. At seven by Arnold's watch, among the breaks across a
steep divide they found another tank, more crumbs, a grain sack with
some scattered barley, more hardtack and the last trace of Angela.
Arnold's hand shook, as did his voice, as he drew forth a little
fluttering ribbon--the "snood" poor Wren so loved to see binding his
child's luxuriant hair.
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