CHAPTER XXV--ON THE TRACK

“Up the rocks, men, quick!” cried the inspector in command of the little _posse_ of police.

Promptly the troopers swarmed forward from behind their horses, rushed to the side of the ravine, and began clambering up it. The majority of them chose a place where the cliff sloped gently back and was broken up into shelves and ledges like a natural stairway.

A couple remained entrenched behind the horses, with their rifles leveled across their own animals’ backs, covering their comrades.

The inspector led the rush up the rocks. No shots were fired at them, and it was plain that the White Hoods had fled the scene.

The inspector topped the cliff first, a revolver in either hand. With eyes fiercely peering into the bushes and the darkness before him, he sidled up hurriedly to Sergeant Dick.

“Thank heaven, we came this way, sergeant. We were just in the nick o’ time.”

In another half-minute John Dick was free in body and limb again, and the inspector was shaking him by the hand, while the troopers could be heard beating the bushes all about and searching these with bulls’-eyes and electric torches to find the trail of the rustlers.

A pleased shout denoted a discovery, and the inspector and Sergeant Dick at once made for the spot.

“Inspector,” said Dick, quietly, as they went, “we needn’t trouble about following their trail. I know who two of the band are, or, at any rate, I believe I know who they are. And, what is more, I have discovered the band’s secret duffing-den, and can lead you to it.”

“You know two of them, and where their duffing-yard is? Excellent! Who are the pair?”

“Bill Seymour, the shepherd hereabouts on Lonewater Ranch, _and his wife_. At least, as I said, I have reason to believe that they are two of the gang.”

“_And his wife!_”

“Yes. And she’s not the only woman in the gang. There are several. They disguise themselves as men, of course, and are the wives and--and daughters, I believe, of the others.”

“You suspect others than the Seymours, then?”

“I do; but I will not name any others yet for fear I am making a dreadful mistake. If you will allow me _carte blanche_ in the matter, however, inspector, and not ask me to name these other suspects right away, I will take means to verify my suspicions within the next twenty-four hours.”

“Do as you please, sergeant. I will not interfere with you,” replied the inspector, whose name was Medhurst. “Now what we must do is at once divide our forces, I suppose, and let one party make for the Seymours’ hut, to lay them by the heels, and the other accompany you to this duffing-yard you say you’ve discovered.”

“I think we can kill the two birds with the one stone, inspector,” replied Sergeant Dick, who had been studying the positions of the stars while he was talking. “We are on the northwest side of the cliffs of the Wonderful Echo, are we not? And not far from the Seymours’ shanty?”

“That is so. The Indians and trappers round here call these curious terraced heights just along to our right the Cliffs of the Wonderful Echo. Their name on the map, and of the whole range, is the Waikuta Hills.”

“Well, I believe the entrance to the secret duffing-yard of the gang is close beside the Seymour shanty. Let us make a move thither at once. If we lose no time we may find the entire gang at the shanty, for they can have no idea, I think, that I suspect even the two Seymours.”

“You wouldn’t advise dividing our force--sending a few of the men along the trail the fellows have left?”

“No, for two reasons, inspector. First, because I must tell you the band wear armor under their white smocks and hoods.”

“What!”

“It is true. They wear coats of mail, capable of stopping a bullet, just like the Kelly Gang of bushrangers did in Australia. You’ve read of Ned Kelly, the iron bushranger?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Well, this gang all wear a similar kind of armor. Evidently they got their idea from the Kelly Gang. And with them thus protected, we’ll need all the men we’ve got, inspector, if not more, to capture or wipe them out.”

“By Jove, yes, in that case.”

“My other reason against your sending any of the troopers to follow the trail is that the fellows are bound to blind it effectually, as they have done before.”

“Just so, or it might mean sending the men to their death; the White Hoods might form an ambush, and, iron-clad as they are--” He broke off, and added, “I will send a man on to Paquita for reënforcements, and we’ll make for the Seymours’ place.”

Without further delay, one of the two troopers with the horses in the ravine was sent galloping on down the road, south towards the Indian Reservation. Inspector Medhurst, Sergeant Dick, and the troopers around them returned to the man’s companion; and, all mounted, Dick being taken up behind the inspector, who rode a big, powerful bay, strong enough to carry them both a good few miles without turning a hair.

Northward, then, they struck, back along the road leading towards Lonewater, the way they had come.

Only a short distance did the road skirt the line of hills, then these turned sharply eastward, while the road continued on northward.

The hoofs of the horses, being muffled, had made no sound on the road. And the party now quitted this and followed the cliff-line, striking across an undulating meadow-like country, or prairie, broken up here and there by wooded hills or “buttes.”

As they rode at the gallop, it was not easy to carry on a conversation. Nevertheless, Sergeant Dick and Inspector Medhurst were able to exchange occasional remarks on account of the way they were riding; and the former explained that he had heard the ringleader of the White Hoods call one of the others “Bud.”

“Bud!” exclaimed the inspector. “That’s Bill Seymour right enough. He goes by the nickname of ‘Bud’ among his friends. He’s better known as ‘Bud’ Seymour than Bill, as a matter of fact.”

“That so? I didn’t know that, but when the Arnolds were directing me as to my best way of getting to Lonewater, they mentioned Bill Seymour--I was to make a half-way call at his place--and one of the sons chanced to refer to him once as ‘Bud’ Seymour. His wife, too, I understand, is named Martha, and one of the White Hoods, who was certainly a woman, the fellow ‘Bud’ called ‘Martha,’ as he helped her to her feet just before they vamoosed.”

“That’s good enough,” gleefully crowed Inspector Medhurst. “Seymour and his wife are members of the gang, sure enough.”

Medhurst went on to explain that the foreman of the Lonewater Ranch had been visiting the Seymours earlier in the evening, and, on his way eastward to pay his respects to the Arnolds, had seen three of the White Hoods riding towards him.

“They did not see him,” said the inspector. “He had just pulled up among some trees to light his pipe, and he hid himself and his horse, and waited until they had passed by. Then he postponed his call at ‘Water Castle,’ and made back to Lonewater at top-speed to rouse us out after the fellows. From the direction the three were taking, he concluded they were making round the hills for the Paquita Road, and so we came this way. I thought they might be after the Paquita and Lonewater stage, and so ordered the horses to be muffled, and lucky for you, sergeant, that I did, eh?”

“Yes, indeed, sir. The foreman of Lonewater saw only _three_ of the gang. H’m!”

Neither of the pair said anything further until, presently, the inspector whispered that they were close to the Seymours’ shanty, and silently signaled to the troopers behind to halt and dismount.

“We’ll creep up to the place on foot and try to carry it at a rush, in case they are all inside,” he added.

As before, two troopers were left with the horses, and the pair were instructed to prevent the animals from neighing. Ten in number, the rest of the police were spread out in a long line, with the inspector at one end of it and Sergeant Dick at the other, and they crept forward through the darkness and the billowy grass.

The pace was purposely slow, and each man put his heel on the ground before the toe at every step, thus making no noise.

The high, beetling cliffs on the right hand overshadowed them all, but, before they had advanced fifty yards, Sergeant Dick saw the blacker outline of the log-hut cutting the skyline.

All was in darkness as if the inmates were asleep or absent.

Stealthily the police deployed still more, so as to enclose the hut--throw their line from one side of it to the other, and hem it in against the cliff-wall at its back. Then the whispered word was passed along from man to man to close in upon it, as they advanced again.

Not a sound broke the stillness of the night. The grass now was short, and the ground hard and rocky in places, so the troopers put their toes first to earth and raised their feet high with each step, in accordance with the rules taught them for moving silently under such conditions.

They got up close to the hut--within half a dozen strides of it--and then with a swift rush reached the door and windows--were around it.

Unceremoniously, the troopers in front of the door immediately battered at it with their rifle-butts, waking a hundred echoes from the cliffs and hills while those at the windows thrust their rifle-barrels in under the shutters to pry these open.

In less time almost than it takes to relate it, a window-shutter at either side of the premises had been forced open, and the assailants were ready to pour as many volleys into the house.

Everything remained silent within, however, and Sergeant Dick called out, softly:

“They are not back yet, inspector. The place is deserted, I should say.”

It was as he said, and, abandoning the assault on the stout, strongly barred door, all the police flocked to the unshuttered windows. These were forced in their turn, but with as little noise as possible now, and the troopers climbed in and ranged through the rooms.

“There’s an underground passage leading from the hut to a secret cave within the cliffs, inspector. Do you know?” Sergeant Dick said, as he and the inspector met inside the kitchen, entering through opposite windows.

“Look for it, men. It will be in one of the inner rooms. There’s no sign of it here.”

“Here it is, sir!” immediately sang out one of the troopers from the bedroom.

Sergeant Dick and his superior officer ran in and saw the troopers raising a trapdoor in the floor. It had been covered by a strip of druggeting, and, moreover, by the bed.

These had been dragged aside before the troopers entered, evidently by the Seymours, who had gone out that way.

A square, box-like hole, timbered all round, about four feet deep, was uncovered.