and at parting; then, with a last pat to the silken nose, he
started on ahead.

At first the man walked steadily; then, warming to the work, he broke
into the swinging jog-trot of the frontiersman, the hunter who travels
afoot. Many Indians the youth had known in his day, and from them he had
learned much; one thing was that in walking or running to step
straight-footed instead of partially sideways, as the white man plants
his sole, was to gain inches at every motion, besides making it easier
to retrace his steps should he wish to do so. This habit had become a
part of him, and now the marks of his own trail were like the
alternately broken line which represents a railroad on a map.

As long as he could see to read from the white page of the snow-blanket,
Ben Blair jogged ahead. Hot anger, that he could not repress, was with
him constantly now, for the trail before him was very fresh, and,
distinct beside it, more and more frequent were the red marks of an
animal's suffering. He knew what horse it was the other had stolen. It
was "Lady," one of Scotty's prize thoroughbred mares, the one Florence
had ridden so many times. Often during those last hours the man wondered
at the endurance of the mare. None but a thoroughbred would have stood
up this long; and even she, if she ever stopped,--but the man ahead
doubtless knew this also, for he would not let her stop, not so long as
life remained and spur and quirt had power to torture.

Thus night came on, folding within its concealing arms alike the hunter
and the pursued. Ben did not build a fire this night. First of all,
though during the day at different times he had been able to see the
bordering trees of the White River at his left and the Bad River at his
right, the trail hung to the comparatively level land of the great
divide between, and not a scrap of wood was within miles. Again,
although he did not actually know, he could not believe he was far
behind, and he would run no risk of giving a warning sign to eyes which
must be watching the backward trail. The fierce hunger of a healthy
animal was his; but his supply of beef was limited, and he ate a meagre
allowance, washing it down with a draught of river water from his
canteen. Rolled up in the blanket, through which the stinging cold
pierced as though it were gossamer, shivering, beating his hands and
feet to prevent their stiffening, longing for protecting fur like a wolf
or a buffalo, keeping constant watch abo