For over an hour Blake followed the windings of a ravine that grew
closer and steeper as it burrowed into the hills. Old game trails are as
good as turnpikes in the eyes of the plainsman. It was when the ravine
began to split into branches that the problem might have puzzled them,
had not the white fleece lain two inches deep on the level when "Lo"
made his dash to escape. Now the rough edges of the original impression
were merely rounded over by the new fallen snow. The hollows and ruts
and depressions led on from one deep cleft into another, and by midnight
Blake felt sure the quarry could be but a few miles ahead and Bear Cliff
barely five hours' march away. So, noiselessly, the signal "Halt!" went
rearward down the long, dark, sinuous column of twos, and every man
slipped out of saddle--some of them stamping, so numb were their feet.
With every mile the air had grown keener and colder. They were glad when
the next word whispered was, "Lead on" instead of "Mount."
By this time they were far up among the pine-fringed heights, with the
broad valley of the Big Horn lying outspread to the west, invisible as
the stars above, and neither by ringing shot nor winged arrow had the
leaders known the faintest check.
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