Farther along they came upon Carlos, lying
upon his face, with a blood-stained trail behind him in the grass to
show how far he had crawled before death overtook him. But they did not
find Jerry, look where they would.
In the cabin, where they finally went to search systematically for
clews, they found places where the logs had been splintered near the
loopholes with bullets from without. A siege it had been, then.
Jack, more familiar with the interior than either of the others because
of his frequent visits there with Teresita, missed certain articles; the
frying pan, an iron pot, a few dishes, and the bedding, to be exact.
So, finally, they decided that Jerry, having had the worst befall him,
had buried his dead, packed a few necessary things upon one of the
mules, mounted the other, and had gone--where? There was no telling
where, in that big land. Somewhere into the wilderness, they guessed,
where he could be alone with the deadly hurt Fate and his enemies had
given him.
The oxen, when they went outside, came shambling up the slope to the oak
tree where they were wont to spend the night near the prairie schooner
that had been their homing place for many a month. But without a doubt
the mules were gone; otherwise, Jack insisted, they would be near the
oxen, as was their gregarious habit.
"Jerry's gone--pulled out," Jack asserted for the third or fourth time.
"And the mules, and--the pup.
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