Holley went straight to Lucy’s window.  He got down on his knees to scrutinize the tracks.

“Made more ’n twelve hours ago,” he said, swiftly.  “She had on her boots, but no spurs. . . .  Now let’s see where she went.”

Holley began to trail Lucy’s progress through the grove, silently pointing now and then to a track.  He went swifter, till Bostil had to hurry.  The other men came whispering after them.

Holley was as keen as a hound on scent.

“She stopped there,” he said, “mebbe to listen.  Looks like she wanted to cross the lane, but she didn’t:  here she got to goin’ faster.”

Holley reached an intersecting path and suddenly halted stock-still, pointing at a big track in the dust.

“My God! . . .  Bostil, look at thet!”

One riving pang tore through Bostil—­and then he was suddenly his old self, facing the truth of danger to one he loved.  He saw beside the big track a faint imprint of Lucy’s small foot.  That was the last sign of her progress and it told a story.

“Bostil, thet ain’t Slone’s track,” said Holley, ringingly.

“Sure it ain’t.  Thet’s the track of a big man,” replied Bostil.

The other riders, circling round with bent heads, all said one way or another that Slone could not have made the trail.

“An’ whoever he was grabbed Lucy up—­made off with her?” asked Bostil.

“Plain as if we seen it done!” exclaimed Holley.  There was fire in the clear, hawk eyes.

“Cordts!” cried Bostil, hoarsely.

“Mebbe—­mebbe.  But thet ain’t my idee. . . .  Come on.”

Holley went so fast he almost ran, and he got ahead of Bostil.  Finally several hundred yards out in the sage he halted, and again dropped to his knees.  Bostil and the riders hurried on.

“Keep back; don’t stamp round so close,” ordered Holley.  Then like a man searching for lost gold in sand and grass he searched the ground.  To Bostil it seemed a long time before he got through.  When he arose there was a dark and deadly certainty in his face, by which Bostil knew the worst had befallen Lucy.

“Four mustangs an’ two men last night,” said Holley, rapidly.  “Here’s where Lucy was set down on her feet.  Here’s where she mounted. . . .  An’ here’s the tracks of a third man—­tracks made this mornin’.”

Bostil straightened up and faced Holley as if ready to take a death-blow.  “I’m reckonin’ them last is Slone’s tracks.”

“Yes, I know them,” replied Holley.

“An’—­them—­other tracks?  Who made them?”

“Creech an’ his son!”

Bostil felt swept away by a dark, whirling flame.  And when it passed he lay in his barn, in the shade of the loft, prostrate on the fragrant hay.  His strength with his passion was spent.  A dull ache remained.  The fight was gone from him.  His spirit was broken.  And he looked down into that dark abyss which was his own soul.