iner, there was a thud of hoofs
behind, and the curious exhilaration returned to Winston as the big
black horse stretched out at a gallop. The soil was hard as granite,
but the matted grasses formed a covering that rendered fast riding
possible to a man who took the risks, and Winston knew there were few
horses in the Government service to match the one he rode. Still, it
was evident that the trooper meant to overtake him, and recollecting
his compact he tightened his grip on the bridle. It was a long way to
the ranch where he was to spend the night, and he knew that the further
he drew the trooper on, the better it would suit Courthorne.

So they swept on through the darkness over the empty waste, the trooper
who was riding hard slowly creeping up behind. Still, Winston held the
horse in until a glance over his shoulder showed him that there was
less than a hundred yards between them, and he fancied he heard a
portentous rattle as well as the thud of hoofs. It was not unlike that
made by a carbine flung across the saddle. This suggested unpleasant
possibilities, and he slackened his grip on the bridle. Then a
breathless shout rang out, "Pull up or I'll fire."

Winston wondered if the threat was genuine or what is termed "bluff" in
that country, but, as he had decided objections to being shot in the
back to please Courthorne, sent his heels home. The horse shot forward
beneath him, and, though no carbine flashed, the next backward glance
showed him that the distance between him and the pursuer was drawing
out, while when he stared ahead again the dark shape of willows or
birches cut the sky-line. As they came back to him the drumming of
hoofs swelled into a staccato roar, while presently the trail grew
steep, and dark boughs swayed above him. In another few minutes
something smooth and level flung back a blink of light, and the timbers
of a wooden bridge rattled under his passage. Then he was racing
upwards through the gloom of wind-dwarfed birches on the opposite side
listening for the rattle behind him on the bridge, and after a struggle
with the horse pulled him up smoking when he did not hear it.

There was a beat of hoofs across the river, but it was slower than when
he had last heard it and grew momentarily less audible, and Winston
laughed as he watched the steam of the horse and his own breath rise in
a thin white cloud.

"The trooper has given it up, and now for Montana," he said.

CHAPTER