ou have got to
bring out a sledge for him somehow, Muller," he said. "Boys, the man who
shot him has left nothing, and the instructions from our other executives
would be worth more to the cattle-men than a good many dollars."

[Illustration: A WHITE FACE AND SHADOWY HEAD, FROM WHICH
THE FUR CAP HAD FALLEN.--Page 114.]

"Well," said the big bushman, "we're going to get that man if we have to
pull down Cedar Range or Clavering's place before we do it. Here's his
trail. That one was made by Quilter's horse."

It scarcely seemed appropriate, and the whole scene was singularly
undramatic, and in a curious fashion almost unimpressive; but
Breckenridge, who came of a reticent stock, understood. Unlike the
Americans of the cities, these men were not addicted to improving the
occasion, and only a slight hardening of their grim faces suggested what
they felt. They were almost as immobile in the faint moonlight as that
frozen one with the lantern flickering beside it in the snow. Yet
Breckenridge long afterwards remembered them.

Two men went back with Muller and the rest swung themselves into the
saddle, and reckless of the risk to beast and man brushed through the
bluff. Dry twigs crackled beneath them, rotten bough and withered bush
went down, and a murmur went up when they rode out into the snow again. It
sounded more ominous to Breckenridge than any clamorous shout. Then,
bridles were shaken and heels went home as somebody found the trail, and
the line tailed out farther and farther as blood and weight began to tell.
The men were riding so fiercely now, that a squadron of United States
cavalry would scarcely have turned them from the trail. Breckenridge
laughed harshly as he and Grant floundered down into a hollow, stirrup by
stirrup and neck to neck.

"I should be very sorry for any of the cattle-boys we came upon to-night,"
he said.

Grant only nodded, and just then a shout went up from the head of the
straggling line, and a man waved his hand.

"Heading for the river!" he said. "We'll find him in the timber. He can't
cross the ice."

The line divided, and Grant and Breckenridge rode on with the smaller
portion, while the rest swung wide to the right. In front of them the
Cedar flowed through its birch-lined gully as yet but lightly bound with
ice, and Breckenridge guessed that the men who had left them purposed
cutting off the fugitive from the bridge. It was long before the first dim
birches rose up against the