Simpson began to be troubled by the doubts which always attend a blind situation. Perhaps the horses were not at that place; maybe they had only been driven there for a feed and a few hours' rest, and were far along the road by this time. There was no good skulking about in the brush waiting for night to confirm this probability. An immediate investigation was the thing in order, unless he was to trifle away his indefinite chance of doing anything at all.
He considered riding up to the house, boldly, putting the notion aside for lack of any plausible excuse or inquiry except the honest one, which it would be foolish and fatal to reveal. If he was to accomplish anything single-handed, far away from any possibility of help, it must be done by stealth and strategy, fortified by such foolhardiness—he would not dignify it as courage, something he would have been the last to admit was his—as he could muster in a pinch. Luck would be a big factor in his program, even to getting out of that country with his life.
He returned to the road, leading the horse, hitched the animal to a sapling where it would be out of sight but near enough to reach if needed in a hurry, pushed through the fringing thicket of hazel bushes, studying the premises again. If he could be certain the horses were at pasture somewhere near, he could proceed to lay some rough sort of plans.
The rain that had been threatening all morning was beginning to fall in a melancholy drizzle. A mistiness was in the air, making distances obscure. It was a poor day for scouting, yet it had its advantages. A man could creep through the bushes, the fallen leaves and twigs damp and
