And she knew the woods.  Intuitively she felt that if Ruggam was on Haystack Mountain making his way toward Lost Nation, he would strike for the shacks of the Green Mountain Club or the deserted logging-camps along the trail, secreting himself in them during his pauses for rest, for he had no food, and provisions were often left in these structures by hunters and mountain hikers.  Her plan was simple.  She would investigate each group of buildings.  She had the advantage of starting on the northwest side of Haystack.  She would be working toward Ruggam, while the rest of the posses were trailing him.

Mile after mile she covered.  She decided it must be midnight when she reached the ghostly buildings of the Harrison tract, lying white and silent under the thickening snow.  It was useless to search these cabins; they were too near civilization.  Besides, if Ruggam had left the freight at Norwall on the eastern side of Haystack at noon, he had thirty miles to travel before reaching the territory from which she was starting.  So she skirted the abandoned quiet of the clearing, laid the snowshoes properly down before her and bound the thongs securely about her ankles.

She had plenty of time to think of Ruggam as she padded along.  He had no snowshoes to aid him, unless he had managed to secure a pair by burglary, which was improbable.  So it was not difficult to calculate about where she should begin watching for him.  She believed he would keep just off the main trail to avoid detection, yet take its general direction in order to secure shelter and possible food from the mountain buildings.  When she reached the country in which she might hope to encounter him, she would zigzag across that main trail in order to pick up his foot-tracks if he had passed her undetected.  In that event she would turn and follow.  She knew that the snow was falling too heavily to continue in such volume indefinitely; it would stop as suddenly as it had started.

The hours of the night piled up.  The silent, muffling snowfall continued.  And Cora McBride began to sense an alarming weariness.  It finally dawned upon her that her old-time vigour was missing.  The strength of youth was hers no longer.  Two experiences of motherhood and no more exercise than was afforded by the tasks of her household, had softened her muscles.  Their limitations were now disclosed.

The realization of those limitations was accompanied by panic.  She was still many miles even from Blind Brook Cabin, and her limbs were afire from the unaccustomed effort.  This would never do.  After pauses for breath that were coming closer and closer together, she set her lips each time grimly.  “Tomboy Allen” had not counted on succumbing to physical fatigue before she had climbed as far as Blind Brook.  If she were weakening already, what of those many miles on the other side?