ror. All the anger was gone from him now, and it
is true that in his heart he felt pity for this man, who had
striven so hard and without cause to take his life. He would
have been glad to go away now, but forced himself to approach and
look down at the Indian.

The warrior lay partly on his side with one arm beneath his
body. The blood from the bullet hole in his chest dyed the snow,
and Dick believed that he had been killed instantly. But Dick
would not touch him. He could not bring himself to do that. Nor
would he take any of his arms. Instead, he turned away, after
the single look, and, bending his head a little to the snow,
walked rapidly toward the yellowish glare that told where the sun
was rising. He did not know just why he went in that direction,
but it seemed to him the proper thing to walk toward the morning.

Two hours, perhaps, passed and the fall of snow began to
lighten. The flakes still came down steadily, but not in such a
torrent. The area of vision widened. He saw dimly, as through a
mist, three or four hundred yards, perhaps, but beyond was only
the white blur, and there was nothing yet to tell him whether he
was going toward the mountains or away from them.

He rested and ate again. Then he recovered somewhat, mentally as
well as physically. Part of the horror of the Indian, his deadly
pursuit, and the deadly ending passed. He ached with weariness
and his nerves were quite unstrung, but the snow would cease, the
skies would clear, and then he could tell which way lay the
mountains and his brother.

He rested here longer than usual and studied the plain as far as
he could see it. He concluded that its character had changed
somewhat, that the swells were high than they had been, and he
was hopeful that he might find shelter soon, a deep gully,
perhaps, or a shallow prairie stream with sheltering cottonwoods
along its course.

Another hour passed, but he did not make much progress. The
snow was now up to his knees, and it became an effort to walk.
The area of vision had widened, but no mountains yet showed
through the white mist. He was becoming tired with a tiredness
that was scarcely to be born. If he stood still long enough to
rest he became cold, a deadly chill that he knew to be the
precursor of death's benumbing sleep would creep over him, and
then he would force himself to resume the monotonous, aching
walk.

Dick's strength waned. His eyesight, affected by the glar