r's deserted hut. Suddenly the line of figures he was watching
seemed to be broken, and then gathered together as a group. Had they
detected him? Evidently they had, for, as he had expected, one of them
had been detached, and was now moving at right angles from the party
towards the right. With a thrill of excitement he urged his horse
forward; the group was far to the left, and he was nearing the solitary
figure. But to his astonishment, as he approached the top of the slope
he now observed another figure, as far to the left of the group as he
was to the right, and that figure he could see, even at that distance,
was NOT a Chinaman. He halted for a better observation; for an
instant he thought it might be the fugitive himself, but as quickly he
recognized it was another man--the deputy. It was HE whom the Chinaman
had discovered; it was HE who had caused the diversion and the dispatch
of the vedette to warn the fugitive. His own figure had evidently
not yet been detected. His heart beat high with hope; he again dashed
forward after the flying messenger, who was undoubtedly seeking the
prospector's ruined hut and--Trixit.

But it was no easy matter. At this elevation the snow had formed a
crust, over which the single Chinaman--a lithe young figure--skimmed
like a skater, while Masterton's horse crashed though it into unexpected
depths. Again, the runner could deviate by a shorter cut, while the
horseman was condemned to the one half obliterated trail. The only thing
in Masterton's favor, however, was that he was steadily increasing his
distance from the group and the deputy sheriff, and so cutting off
their connection with the messenger. But the trail grew more and more
indistinct as it neared the summit, until at last it utterly vanished.
Still he kept up his speed toward the active little figure--which now
seemed to be that of a mere boy--skimming over the frozen snow. Twice
a stumble and flounder of the mustang through the broken crust ought
to have warned him of his recklessness, but now a distinct glimpse of
a low, blackened shanty, the prospector's ruined hut, toward which
the messenger was making, made him forget all else. The distance was
lessening between them; he could see the long pigtail of the fugitive
standing out from his bent head, when suddenly his horse plunged forward
and downward. In an awful instant of suspense and twilight, such as
he might have seen in a dream, he felt himself pitched headlong into