Wide-eyed but impassive, the man watched and listened.  Scarcely a muscle of his body moved.  Not once, as the hours slipped by, did he drowse; not for an instant was he off his guard.  With the first trace of morning in the east, he was astir.  As on the night before, he made his Indian’s fire, ate his handful of beef, and drank of the strong black coffee.  The pony, sleepy as a child, was aroused and saddled.  The ice which had frozen during the night over their drinking-hole was broken.  Then, both man and horse stiff and sore from the exposure and the previous exertion, the trail was taken up anew.

For five miles, until both were warmed to their work, the man and beast trotted along side by side.  “Now, Buck, old boy!” said Ben, and mounting, they were off in earnest.  At first the trail they were following was that of a horse that walked; but later it stretched out into the old long-strided gallop, and the pursuer read the tale of quirt and spur which had forced the change.

Three hours out, thirty odd miles from the river as the rider calculated the distance, he came to the first break in the seemingly endless trail of hoofprints he was following.  A heap of snow scraped aside and two brown spots on the earth told the story of where the pursued man and horse had paused to rest and sleep.  No water was near.  Neither the human nor the beast had strayed from the direct line; they had merely halted and dropped almost within their tracks.  Just beyond was the spot where the man had remounted, where the flight began anew; and again a tale lay written on the surface of the snow.  The prints of the horse’s feet were now unsteady and irregular.  Within a few rods there was on the right a red splash of blood; then others, a drop at a time.  Very hard it had been to put life into the beast at starting; deep the rowels of the great spur had been dug.  Ben Blair lightly touched the neck of his buckskin and gave the word to go.

“They were only thirty miles ahead last night, Buck, old chap,” he said, “and very tired.  We’ll gain on them fast to-day.”

But though they gained—­the record of the tracks told that—­they did not gain fast.  Notwithstanding he still galloped doggedly ahead, the gallant little buckskin was plainly weakening.  The eternal pounding through the snow was eating up his strength, and though his spirit was indomitable the end of his endurance was in sight.  No longer would the dainty ears respond to a touch on the neck.  With head lowered he moved forward like a machine.  While the sun was yet above the horizon, the lope diminished to a trot, the trot to a walk—­a game walk, but only a walk.

Then, for the second time that day, Ben dismounted.  Silently he removed saddle and bridle, transferred the blanket and kit to his own back, and then, the rifle under his arm, stopped a moment by the pony’s side and laid the dainty muzzle against his face.

“Buck, old boy,” he said, “you’ve done mighty well—­but I can beat you now.  Maybe some day we’ll meet again.  I hope we shall.  Anyway, we’re better for having known each other.  Good-bye.”