The station was already drained of its spare men and horses.  The undenominated passenger stepped forward and offered to take it himself when his business, which he would despatch as quickly as possible, was concluded.

“That ain’t a bad idea,” said Clinch reflectively, “for ef yer hurry you’ll head ’em off in case they scent us, and try to double back on the North Ridge.  They’ll fight shy of the trail if they see anybody on it, and one man’s as good as a dozen.”

Hale could not help thinking that he might have been that one man, and had his opportunity for independent action but for his rash proposal, but it was too late to withdraw now.  He hastily scribbled a few lines to his wife on a sheet of the station paper, handed it to the man, and took his place in the little cavalcade as it filed silently down the road.

They had ridden in silence for nearly an hour, and had passed the scene of the robbery by a higher track.  Morning had long ago advanced its colors on the cold white peaks to their right, and was taking possession of the spur where they rode.

“It looks like snow,” said Rawlins quietly.

Hale turned towards him in astonishment.  Nothing on earth or sky looked less likely.  It had been cold, but that might have been only a current from the frozen peaks beyond, reaching the lower valley.  The ridge on which they had halted was still thick with yellowish-green summer foliage, mingled with the darker evergreen of pine and fir.  Oven-like canyons in the long flanks of the mountain seemed still to glow with the heat of yesterday’s noon; the breathless air yet trembled and quivered over stifling gorges and passes in the granite rocks, while far at their feet sixty miles of perpetual summer stretched away over the winding American River, now and then lost in a gossamer haze.  It was scarcely ripe October where they stood; they could see the plenitude of August still lingering in the valleys.

“I’ve seen Thomson’s Pass choked up with fifteen feet o’ snow earlier than this,” said Rawlins, answering Hale’s gaze; “and last September the passengers sledded over the road we came last night, and all the time Thomson, a mile lower down over the ridge in the hollow, smoking his pipes under roses in his piazzy!  Mountains is mighty uncertain; they make their own weather ez they want it.  I reckon you ain’t wintered here yet.”

Hale was obliged to admit that he had only taken Eagle’s Court in the early spring.

“Oh, you’re all right at Eagle’s—­when you’re there!  But it’s like Thomson’s—­it’s the gettin’ there that—­Hallo!  What’s that?”

A shot, distant but distinct, had rung through the keen air.  It was followed by another so alike as to seem an echo.

“That’s over yon, on the North Ridge,” said the ostler, “about two miles as the crow flies and five by the trail.  Somebody’s shootin’ b’ar.”

“Not with a shot gun,” said Clinch, quickly wheeling his horse with a gesture that electrified them.  “It’s them, and the’ve doubled on us!  To the North Ridge, gentlemen, and ride all you know!”