Here he turned north and shook his horse into a trot.
A hundred yards or so down the slope beyond Rock City he pulled up short with a "What the hell!" that did not sound profane, but merely amazed.
In the sodden road were the unmistakable footprints of a woman.

Lone did not hesitate in naming the sex, for the wet sand held the imprint cleanly, daintily.

Too shapely for a boy, too small for any one but a child or a woman with little feet, and with the point at the toes proclaiming the fashion of the towns, Lone guessed at once that she was a town girl, a stranger, probably,--and that she had passed since the rain; which meant since daylight.
He swung his horse and rode back, wondering where she could have spent the night.

Halfway through Rock City the footprints ended abruptly, and Lone turned back, riding down the trail at a lope.

She couldn't have gone far, he reasoned, and if she had been out all night in the rain, with no better shelter than Rock City afforded, she would need help,--"and lots of it, and pretty darn quick," he added to John Doe, which was the ambiguous name of his horse.
Half a mile farther on he overtook her.