Sam looked from the man to the dog.

“Well, between the two of you!” said he.

Dick sprang forward, lashing the team with his whip.

“After him!” he shouted.

They ran in a swirl of light snow.  In a very few moments they came to a bundle of pelts, a little pile of traps, the unnecessary impediments discarded by the man they pursued.  So near had they been to a capture.

Sam, out of breath, peremptorily called a halt.

“Hold on!” he commanded.  “Take it easy.  We can’t catch him like this.  He’s travelling light, and he’s one man, and he has a fresh team.  He’ll pull away from us too easy, and leave us with worn-out dogs.”  The old man sat and deliberately filled his pipe.

Dick fumed up and down, chafing at the delay, convinced that something should be done immediately, but at a loss to tell what it should be.

“What’ll we do, then?” he asked, after a little.

“He leaves a trail, don’t he?” inquired Sam.  “We must follow it.”

“But what good—­how can we ever catch up?”

“We’ve got to throw away our traps and extra duffle.  We’ve got to travel as fast as we can without wearing ourselves out.  He may try to go too fast, and so we may wear him down.  It’s our only show, anyway.  If we lose him now, we’ll never find him again.  That trail is all we have to go by.”

“How if it snows hard?  It’s getting toward spring storms.”

“If it snows hard—­well—­” The old man fell silent, puffing away at his pipe.  “One thing I want you to understand,” he continued, looking up with a sudden sternness, “don’t you ever take it on yourself to shoot that gun again.  We’re to take that man alive.  The noise of the shot to-day was a serious thing; it gave Jingoss warning, and perhaps spoiled our chance to surprise him.  But he might have heard us anyway.  Let that go.  But if you’d have killed that hound as you started out to do, you’d have done more harm than your fool head could straighten out in a lifetime.  That hound—­why—­he’s the best thing we’ve got.  I’d—­I’d almost rather lose our rifles than him—­” he trailed off again into rumination.

Dick, sobered as he always was when his companion took this tone, inquired why, but received no answer.  After a moment Sam began to sort the contents of the sledge, casting aside all but the necessities.

“What’s the plan?” Dick ventured.

“To follow.”

“How long do you think it will be before we catch him?”

“God knows.”

The dogs leaned into their harness, almost falling forward at the unexpected lightness of the load.  Again the little company moved at measured gait.  For ten minutes nothing was said.  Then Dick: 

“Sam,” he said, “I think we have just about as much chance as a snowball in hell.”

“So do I,” agreed the old woodsman, soberly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR