“Pick up your blanket!”

“But—­”

“Silence!” The big square jaw shot forward like the piston of an engine.  “Not another word of that, now or ever.  Not another word!”

For a second the other paused doggedly, then taking up his load he moved ahead into the shadow.

Hour after hour they advanced, alternately walking and trotting, following the winding bed of the stream.  Darkness fell, until they could not see each other’s faces, until they were merely two black passing shadows; but the figure behind was relentless.  Stimulating, compelling, he forced himself close.  Ever and anon they could hear the frightened dash of a rabbit away from their path.  More than once a snow-owl fluttered over their heads; but they took no notice.  Twice the man in advance stumbled and fell; but though Ben paused he spoke no word.  Like a soldier of the ranks on secret forced march, ignorant of his destination, given only conjecture as to what the morrow would bring forth, Tom Blair panted ahead.

With the coming of daylight Ben slowed to a walk, and looked about in quest of breakfast.  Game was plentiful along the shelter of the stream, and before they had advanced a half-mile farther he saw ahead a flock of grouse roosting in the diverging branches of a cottonwood tree.  At two hundred yards, selecting those on the lowest branches, he dropped half a dozen, one after the other, with the rifle; and still the remainder of the flock did not fly.  Very different were they from the open-land prairie chicken, whom a mere sound will send a-wing.

As on the night before, they broiled each what he wished, and, carefully cleaning the others, Ben packed them with his kit.  Then, stolid as an Indian, he cleared a spot of earth, and wrapping himself in his blanket lay down full in the sunshine, smoking his pipe impassively.  Taking the cue, Tom Blair likewise curled up like a dog near at hand.

Slowly and more slowly came the puffs of smoke from the captor’s pipe; at last they ceased entirely.  The lids of the youth’s eyes closed, his breath came deep and regular.  Beneath the blanket a muscle here and there twitched involuntarily, as in one who is very weary and asleep.

An hour passed, an hour without a sound; then, looking closely, a spectator could have seen one of Tom Blair’s eyes open and close furtively.  Again it opened, and its mate as well—­to remain so.  For a minute, two minutes, they studied the companion face uncertainly, suspiciously, then savagely.  Another minute, and the body had risen to hands and knees.  Still Ben did not stir, still the great expanse of his chest rose and fell.  Tom Blair was satisfied.  Hand over hand, feeling his way like a cat, he advanced toward the prostrate figure.  Despite his caution, the crust of the snow crackled once beneath his touch, and he paused, a soundless curse forming upon his lips; but the warning passed unheeded, and, bolder than before, he padded on.