Caleb: A Western tale, circa 1880's

Chapter Two

Out in the woods, the tracker came to the end of his trail and cursed. "He's doubled back," observed the marshal unnecessarily as he turned his horse and headed back the way they'd come, taking the lead.

The tracker paused at a certain place. "He stops here, prob'ly watch us go by then head back toward de water." The rest of the posse stared morosely at the few, bent blades of forest growth that told the tracker far more than it could untrained eyes.

The tracker dismounted, leaving his horse's reins to trail on the ground, and bent over the slight depression on the ground. He scowled at the marshal, eyeing the prints on the ground. "He bleeds- but not much. Change out of him boots too, I think," the tracker continued, eyeing the prints carefully. "Boots come and moccasins leave." He chuckled humorlessly. "Make him more difficult to track; he a wily one, for sure!"

"Makes easier walking too," quipped another man, holding a rifle in one hand and sounding pleased with himself. "And since he's carrying his saddle, it shouldn't take us too long to find him."

The tracker, called only the Cajun, grunted and grabbed his horse's reins, walking as he tracked the elusive fugitive. "Blood;" he pointed out the minuscule, black stain on a leaf. When they came to the stream, the tracker crossed then returned to the center of the stream, studying the water and the rocks under them for a moment. After something muttered unintelligibly in his native tongue, the tracker said, "he not come out water."

In response to the tracker's observation, the marshal eyed his men. "Charlie, you take Dobson and Grady down that way. The rest of you, come with me. Let's find out where he left the water."

Silently, the three men turned their horses downstream and left the group, studying the vegetation that lined the banks of the stream as they searched for where their quarry had gone. It was late in the day before the trail was found again. A rider was dispatched to retrieve the remainder of the party and the hunt slowed while the successful members of the posse waited for their fellows to rejoin them.

"He only a day ahead." The Cajun pointed at the hollow in the grass where a man had spent the night. "Tomorrow, we find him."

"It's as good a place to camp as any," pointed out a member of the group. His companions eyed the sunset and agreed.

Come morning, the group doused their fire and set out. "He go slow," observed the Cajun. "No hide him tracks, neither." He mounted his horse and urged it forward, confident in his ability to follow the marks of Caleb Waite's trail, plain to his eyes yet invisible to the other members of the posse. It wasn't even noon before they reached the fence and followed it along to where he'd crossed over onto what was clearly marked as 'Lazy 8' land.

Morosely, the group eyed this latest barrier to their search. The fence was strong, a mixture of old and new wire, weathered and fresh posts. Obviously, someone maintained the fence regularly. To cut it would hamper their search, should the landowner take offense at the destroyed wire. "Well, the horses can't jump that high," observed one posse member. "We'll have to find a gate."

"Nearest one's over by the ranch house," a younger man offered. "Them Slocums don't cotton none to gates- or trespassers. I'd say it's a safe bet your boy is as good as gone, Marshal, if he done wandered onto Lazy 8 land."

Another agreed, turning his horse around. "Sure enough, you'll never be seeing him again; I'm leaving. You can't pay me enough to enter Lazy 8 lands. Folks go in and they don't come out." With that, he spurred his horse into a canter and rode back in the direction of town.

The marshal eyed the remainder of the posse. "Anyone else scared of ghosts?"

"No Sir," answered the youngest member of the posse, "but no good can come of cutting that fence. Best we go around and ask Miz Slocum for permission to search the place."