“He’s wearing old, worn-out boots,” said Yorke, “got awful big feet, too, I remember.  Of course this trail’s too beaten up from end to end to be able to get a line on foot-prints.  We might work slowly back to your place, though, Mr. Gully, and keep a lookout for any place where he may have struck south off the trail, as the Sergeant says.”

It seemed the only thing to do.  The party moved leisurely forward, Gully riding ahead of the cutter, Yorke and Redmond in its wake, as before, well-spread out on either side of the well-worn trail.  Here, the snow was practically undisturbed, affording them every opportunity of discovering fresh foot-prints debouching from the main trail.  It was rather exacting, monotonous work, necessitating cautious and leisurely progress; but they stuck to it doggedly until sometime later they rounded a bend in the river and came within sight of Gully’s ranch, about a mile distant.

Presently that gentleman pulled up and swung out of saddle.  “Half a minute,” he said, “my saddle’s slipping!  I want to tighten my cinch.”

The small cavalcade halted.  Slavin’s restless eyes roving over the expanse of unbroken snow on his left hand, suddenly dilated, and he uttered an eager exclamation, pointing downwards with outflung arm.

“Ah,” said he grimly, “here we are, I’m thinkin’!” And he clambered hastily out of the cutter.

Yorke and Redmond, dismounting swiftly, stepped forward with him and examined minutely the unmistakably fresh imprints of large-sized feet angling off from the trail towards the bank of the frozen river.

“Hob-nailed boots!” ejaculated Yorke.  “Guess that must be him, all right, Mr. Gully?”

The latter bent and scrutinized the imprints.  “Sure must be,” he rejoined, with conviction.  “A man walking out on the range is a curiosity.  I can’t think how I could have missed them—­coming along.  But I guess I was so mad, and in such a devil of a hurry I didn’t notice much.  I made sure of catching up to him somewhere on the trail.”

Slavin beckoned to Redmond and, much to that young gentleman’s chagrin, bade him hold the lines of the restless team, while he (Slavin), along with Yorke and Gully, started forwards trailing the footprints.  Arriving at the river’s edge they slid down the bank and followed the tracks over the snow-covered ice to the centre of the river.  Here was open water for some distance; the powerful current at this point keeping open a ten-foot wide steaming fissure.  The tracks hugged its edge to a point about four hundred yards westward, where the fissure closed up again and enabled them to cross to the opposite bank.  Clambering up this their quest led them across a long stretch of comparatively level ground to the fenced-in railway-track.

Ducking under the lower strand of wire they reached the line.  At the foot of the graded road-bed, Slavin, who was ahead, halted suddenly and uttered an oath.  Stooping down he picked up something and, turning round to his companions exhibited his find.  It was a small, black-leather bill-folder—­empty.