Dusk was falling when Douglas made the camp.  Charleton already had started a fire in the little cook-stove.  He came out and examined the mare as well as the failing light and her extreme timidity permitted.

“She’s a beauty, Doug.  Don’t believe she’s over four years old.  Any brand on her?”

“No.  From the looks of her hoofs, I’d say she’d been born with the herd.  What luck did you have, Charleton?”

“None at all.  I took after a young stallion and he wore my horse out.  I know where he’s bedding down to-night and I’ll get him to-morrow or shoot him.”

“You’ll get him,” said Douglas.

Charleton chuckled.  “Nice thing if the mare is all we bring in.  Make some coffee, Doug.  The biscuits are baking.  I could eat one of Sister’s coyotes to-night.”  Charleton jammed another sage-brush knot into the little stove.

They were off at dawn.  Douglas rode this day a young bay horse he had recently broken and named Pard.  But though Pard was strong and willing, he lacked the skill of the Moose in running this rough country, and by noon Douglas was obliged to give up the pursuit of a dapple gray he had selected.  He was far out on the plains when he made the decision to turn campward.  To the distant south, in the Lost Chief ranges, a snowstorm was raging; but Pard and Douglas were dripping with sweat, under a sweltering sun.  Strange, thimble-shaped green hills, dotted the plains about them.  Douglas drew up at the base of one of these to rest his horse.  Scarcely had he done so when a tiny herd of antelope trotted casually round the neighboring hillock.  They halted, sniffed, and turned, but not before Douglas had drawn his saddle gun and fired at the leader.  The creature went lame at once but disappeared with his fellows among the green hills.

Douglas followed and shortly found a spot of blood that was repeated at irregular intervals for a mile or so.  Pard was grunting now, but Douglas rowelled him and pushed on until he saw the antelope kneeling in the lee of an outcropping of rock.  It struggled to its feet and fell again, its beautiful head dropping against its crimsoned breast.

“Wonder if I can get you home alive to Judith?” said Douglas.

After a moment of thought, he loosened his lariat, swung and roped the antelope around the horns, dragging it from its futile sanctuary.  Then he dismounted and removed the lariat.  The antelope bleated but lay trembling, making no attempt to rise.  Douglas examined the shattered shoulder.

“You poor devil!” he said.  “Even if you weren’t hurt so badly, you’d die of fright before I could get you home.  Well, of course I’m sorry venison is out of season, but a man must eat!” He put his gun to the delicate head, and an hour later Pard was snorting under a gunny-sack of venison.  Douglas lighted a cigarette and, whistling gaily, started once more for camp.