ot spare the beast. Wandle must have
seen him, but he was holding straight on, and this could only be because
he was following a trail which led to the easiest crossing of the ravine.
The man would shrink from the risk of getting entangled among thick
timber with his team.

Prescott would have found speed difficult, even had he been mounted on a
fresh horse. The snow was thin, but it was loose and dusty beneath the
crust, through which the hoofs broke, while Wandle was making excellent
progress along a beaten trail. Still, Prescott was nearer to the point
the man was making for, and if he could reach it first, Wandle could not
escape. Riding with savage determination, he sped on, the snow flying up
behind him, the thrill of the pursuit firing his blood and filling him
with fierce excitement. Wandle's fresh team was going at a gallop, the
hoofs beating out a sharp drumming that mingled with the furious rattle
of wheels, and through these sounds broke a rapid, pounding thud which
told that Stanton was following hard behind. The trooper was, however,
less close than he had been; too far, Prescott thought, to use his
carbine; and as he mercilessly drove his beast he feared that he could
scarcely reach the trail in time. He was closing with the rig and could
see Wandle savagely lash his team; the trouble was that instead of riding
to cut off the fugitive, in another few minutes he would be behind him,
which was a very different thing.

While he plied the quirt he saw the rig vanish among the trees close
ahead. They stretched out some distance into the prairie, and he might
not be too late yet, if he were willing to take a serious risk. He did
not think the trail ran straight down into the ravine--the hollow was too
deep for that--it would descend the slope obliquely and might trend
toward him. If so, he should still be able to intercept the rig by
cutting off the corner and riding straight down the steep bank through
the timber. The odds were in favor of his killing the horse and breaking
his own neck, but this did not count, and the next moment there was a
crash as the Clydesdale rushed through a brake. A branch struck
Prescott's leg a heavy blow, but he was too numbed to feel much pain, and
as he swung round a bush that threatened to tear him from the saddle he
could look down between the trees. Then he was filled with exultation,
for the trail had turned his way. Below him, but farther from the bottom
of the dipping trac