A hot, steamy smell rose about him; but George, who had been walking again, began to run.  He must use every exertion, for if he were right in concluding that he had been detained on American soil, his pursuers would follow him north, and when daylight came a mounted man’s view would command a wide sweep of level prairie.  The storm passed away, muttering, into the distance; the rain ceased, and the air was fresh and cool until the sun sprang up.  It was on his right hand, he thought he had kept his line; but he stopped to consider on the edge of a ravine.  The sides of the hollow were clothed with tall, wet grass and brush; it would offer good cover, but he could hardly avoid leaving a track if he followed it, and his pursuers would search such spots.  It seemed wiser to push on across the plain.

Descending through the thinnest brush he could find, he stopped for a drink from the creek at the bottom, and then went on as fast as possible.  He was becoming conscious of a pain in his left side; one foot felt sore; and as the sun got hotter a longing to lie down a while grew steadily stronger.  Still, he could see nothing but short, gray grass ahead; he must hold on; there might be bluffs or broken country beyond the skyline.

At length a small square block cut against the dazzling brightness and slowly grew into a lonely homestead.  After some consideration, George headed for it, and toward noon reached a little, birch-log dwelling, with a sod stable beside it.  Both had an uncared-for appearance, which suggested their owner’s poverty.  As George approached the door, a gaunt, hard-faced man in dilapidated overalls came out and gazed at him in surprise.  George’s clothing, which had been torn when he was seized in the bluff, had further suffered during the deluge.  He looked a weary, ragged outcast.

“Can you give me something to eat and hire me a horse?” he asked.

The farmer seemed suspicious.

“Guess I want my horses for the binder; I’m harvesting oats.”

“I’ll pay you well for the time you lose,” George broke out.

“How much?”

Thrusting his hand into his pocket, George found with dismay that his wallet, which contained some bills, was missing.

“Anything you ask in reason, but you’ll have to take a check on a Brandon bank.  Have you got a pen and paper in the house?”

“How am I to know your check’s good?” The farmer laughed ironically.

George was doubtful of the man, but he must take a risk.

“My name’s Lansing, from the Marston homestead, beyond Sage Butte.  It’s a pretty big place; any check I give you will be honored.”

The farmer looked at him with growing interest.

“Well,” he said, “you can’t have my horse.”

It was evident from his manner that reasoning would be useless.

“How does Sage Butte lie from here?” George asked him.

“Can’t tell you; I’ve never been in the place.”