Two hours after he reined his horse
Up in Urana, and straightway went
‘To the barracks—the trooper was gone, of course!
Blindly nosing a week-old scent
A way in the scrub around Mount Galore.
‘Confound the fellow!’ quoth Featherstonhaugh.
‘Will any man of you come with me
And give this Bluecap a dressing-down?’
They all regarded him silently
As he turned his horse with a scornful frown.
‘You’re curs, the lot of you, to the core!
I’ll go by myself!’ said Featherstonhaugh.
The scrub was thick on Urangeline,
As he followed the tracks that twisted through
The box and dogwood and scented pine
(One of their horses had cast a shoe)
Steeped from his youth in forest lore,
He could track like a nigger, could Featherstonhaugh.
He paused as he saw the thread of smoke
From the outlaw camp, and he marked the sound
Of a hobble-check, as it sharply broke
The silence that held the scrub-land bound.
There were their horses—two, three, four!
‘It’s a risk; but I’ll chance it!’ quoth Featherstonhaugh.
