ted. The expectant
excitement which had animated them for the past hour had gone and was
followed by a reaction. Their bodies were half frozen, their minds worked
heavily, but both were conscious of a grim resolve. It was the trooper's
duty to bear crushing fatigue and stinging frost, one that was sternly
demanded of him; and the rancher had a stronger motive. He must clear
himself for Muriel's sake, and he was filled with rage against the man
who had tried to betray him. He would go on, if necessary, until his
hands and feet froze or the big Clydesdale fell.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE END OF THE PURSUIT

When they had ridden some distance through the wood, Stanton checked his
horse.

"Hold on!" he cried. "Here's a bit of an opening in the brush!"

He moved away a few yards, and then called out:

"Looks mighty like a trail. I guess you didn't notice it when you came
along."

Prescott admitted that he had not done so, which was not surprising.
There was little to distinguish the gap between the nut bushes from
others that opened up all round; but Stanton seemed satisfied that he was
right.

"Somebody has driven out this way not long ago," he explained.

"It doesn't follow that the man was Wandle."

"Why, no. Still, I guess it's likely; and if there's a trail, it leads to
a homestead. Anyway, we'll track it up."

When they reached the open prairie, the moonlight showed faint wheelmarks
running on before them to the east. The country was open and empty; a
wide plain, with one slight rise some miles away that cut with a white
gleam against the deep blue of the sky. They headed toward it wearily,
following the track, and drew bridle when they gained the summit. A
half-moon floated rather low in the western sky, glittering keen with
frost, and they could see that the prairie ahead of them was more rolling
and broken. Dusky smears of bluffs checkered its white surface here and
there, and a low irregular dark line ran across it. Prescott supposed
this to be a small timber growing along the edge of a ravine. Beyond it,
in the distance, a faint glimmer of yellow light caught and held his eye.
It was the one touch of warm color in the chill and lifeless waste of
white and blue.

"A homestead," said Stanton. "We'll ride as far as the ravine together;
and then I guess I'll make for the farm alone. If Wandle's been there
looking for horses, he'll strike south and take the trail we left,
farther on. You'll head down