Another fact disturbed him.

Lovelle's print had been clear enough till the other Indians joined him.

The light was bad, but now that print seemed to have disappeared.

It might be due to the general thronging of marks in the trail, but it might be that Jim was a prisoner, trussed and helpless.
He supped off cold jerked bear's meat and slept two hours in the canes, waiting on the moonrise.

He had bad dreams, for he seemed to hear drums beating the eerie tattoo which he remembered long ago in Border raids.
He woke in a sweat, and took the road again in the moonlight.