lunged on, not knowing where, and not caring,
was when the roan reeled suddenly and flung forward to the ground.
Even that violent stop did not unseat Red Pierre. He jerked up on the
reins with a curse and drove in the spurs. Valiantly the horse reared
his shoulders up, but when he strove to rise the right foreleg dangled
helplessly. He had stepped in some hole and the bone was broken
cleanly across.

The rider slipped from the saddle and stood facing the roan, which
pricked its ears forward and struggled once more to regain its feet.
The effort was hopeless, and Pierre took the broken leg and felt the
rough edges of the splintered bone through the skin. The animal, as if
it sensed that the man was trying to do it some good, nosed his
shoulder and whinnied softly.

Pierre stepped back and drew his revolver. The bullet would do quickly
what the cold would accomplish after lingering hours of torture, yet,
facing those pricking ears and the brave trust of the eyes, he was
blinded by a mist and could not aim. He had to place the muzzle of the
gun against the roan's temple and pull the trigger. When he turned his
back he was the only living thing within the white arms of the hills.

Yet, when the next hill was behind him, he had already forgotten the
second life which he put out that night, for regret is the one sorrow
which never dodges the footsteps of the hunted. Like all his
brotherhood of Cain, Pierre le Rouge pressed forward across the
mountain-desert with his face turned toward the brave to-morrow. In
the evening of his life, if he should live to that time, he would walk
and talk with God.

Now he had no mind save for the bright day coming.

He had been riding with the wind and had scarcely noticed its violence
in his headlong course. Now he felt it whipping sharply at his back
and increasing with each step. Overhead the sky was clear, pitilessly
clear. It seemed to give vision for the wind and cold to seek him out,
and the moon made his following shadow long and black across the snow.

The wind quickened rapidly to a gale that cut off the surface of the
snow and whipped volleys of the small particles level with the surface.
It cut the neck of Red Pierre, and the gusts struck his shoulders with
staggering force like separate blows, twisting him a little from side
to side.

Coming from the direction of Morgantown, it seemed as if the vengeance
for Diaz was following the slayer. Once he turned and l