by side. "Now, Buck, old boy!" said Ben, and
mounting, they were off in earnest. At first the trail they were
following was that of a horse that walked; but later it stretched out
into the old long-strided gallop, and the pursuer read the tale of quirt
and spur which had forced the change.

Three hours out, thirty odd miles from the river as the rider calculated
the distance, he came to the first break in the seemingly endless trail
of hoofprints he was following. A heap of snow scraped aside and two
brown spots on the earth told the story of where the pursued man and
horse had paused to rest and sleep. No water was near. Neither the human
nor the beast had strayed from the direct line; they had merely halted
and dropped almost within their tracks. Just beyond was the spot where
the man had remounted, where the flight began anew; and again a tale lay
written on the surface of the snow. The prints of the horse's feet were
now unsteady and irregular. Within a few rods there was on the right a
red splash of blood; then others, a drop at a time. Very hard it had
been to put life into the beast at starting; deep the rowels of the
great spur had been dug. Ben Blair lightly touched the neck of his
buckskin and gave the word to go.

"They were only thirty miles ahead last night, Buck, old chap," he said,
"and very tired. We'll gain on them fast to-day."

But though they gained--the record of the tracks told that--they did not
gain fast. Notwithstanding he still galloped doggedly ahead, the gallant
little buckskin was plainly weakening. The eternal pounding through the
snow was eating up his strength, and though his spirit was indomitable
the end of his endurance was in sight. No longer would the dainty ears
respond to a touch on the neck. With head lowered he moved forward like
a machine. While the sun was yet above the horizon, the lope diminished
to a trot, the trot to a walk--a game walk, but only a walk.

Then, for the second time that day, Ben dismounted. Silently he removed
saddle and bridle, transferred the blanket and kit to his own back, and
then, the rifle under his arm, stopped a moment by the pony's side and
laid the dainty muzzle against his face.

"Buck, old boy," he said, "you've done mighty well--but I can beat you
now. Maybe some day we'll meet again. I hope we shall. Anyway, we're
better for having known each other. Good-bye."

A moment longer his face lay so, as his hand would have lain in a
friend's h