At one point he halted and considered.

"That's queer," he muttered.

"Jim was running here.

It wasn't game, neither, for there's no sign of their tracks." He pointed to the zig-zag of moccasin prints in a patch of gravel.

"That's the way a man sets his feet when he's in a hurry." A little later he stood and sniffed, with his brows wrinkled.