If MacDonald had escaped, and they had feared a possible pursuit, some one would have watched the bridge.
The trail was easy to follow now.

Sand and grassy earth had replaced rock and shale; he could make out the imprints of feet--many of them--and they led in the direction of a piece of timber that apparently edged a valley running to the east and west.

The rumble of the torrent in the chasm grew fainter as he advanced.

A couple of hundred yards farther on the trail swung to the left again; it took him around the end of a huge rock, and as he appeared from behind this, his knife clutched in his hand, he dropped suddenly flat on his face, and his heart rose like a lump in his throat.
Scarcely fifty yards above him was the camp of his enemies! There were two tepees and piles of saddles and panniers and blankets about them, but not a soul that he could see.

And then, suddenly, there rose a voice bellowing with rage, and he recognized it as Quade's.