ht
be ended in a few more minutes, did not spare the spur. He also
remembered, as he tightened his grip on the bridle, the white face of
Trooper Shannon flecked with the drifting snow.

The bluff that rose steadily higher came back to them, willow and
straggling birch flashed by, and at last Payne drew bridle where a
rutted trail wound down between the trees to the bridge in the hollow.
A swift glance showed him that a mounted man could scarcely make his
way between them, and he smiled dryly as he signed to his companion.

"Back your horse clear of the trail," he said, and there was a rattle
as he flung his carbine across the saddle. "With Hilton behind him,
he'll ride straight into our hands."

He wheeled his horse in among the birches, and then sat still, with
fingers that quivered a little on the carbine-stock, until a faint
drumming rose from the prairie.

"He's coming!" said the trooper. "Hilton's hanging on to him."

Payne made no answer, and the sound that rang more loudly every moment
through the grayness of the early daylight was not pleasant to hear.
Man's vitality is near its lowest about that hour, and the troopers had
ridden furiously the long night through, while one of them, who knew
Lance Courthorne, surmised that there was grim work before him. Still,
though he shivered as a little chilly wind shook the birch twigs, he
set his lips, and once more remembered the comrade who had ridden far
and kept many a lonely vigil with him.

Then a mounted man appeared in the space between the trees. His horse
was jaded, and he rode loosely, swaying once or twice in his saddle,
but he came straight on, and there was a jingle and rattle as the
troopers swung out into the trail. The man saw them, for he glanced
over his shoulder, as if at the rider who appeared behind, and then
sent the spurs in again.

"Pull him up," cried Corporal Payne, and his voice was a little
strained. "Stop right where you are before we fire on you!"

The man must have seen the carbines, for he raised himself a trifle,
and Payne saw his face under the flapping hat. It was drawn and gray,
but there was no sign of yielding or consternation in the half-closed
eyes. Then he lurched in his saddle as from exhaustion or weariness,
and straightened himself again with both hands on the bridle. Payne
saw his heels move and the spurs drip red, and slid his left hand
further along the carbine stock. The trail was steep and narrow. A
ho