“Sure. How much longer are you staying?”
“Till we git our man, of course. Do I have to keep tellin’ you? It’s takin’ a little longer than we thought, but we’ll be here as long as he is.”
The quiet determination of the tone stirred Hampton’s admiration despite himself.
“You ought to be on the Royal Northwest Mounted,” he laughed. “You have the same stick-to-the-trail doggedness.”
“I was with ’em,” was the unexpected reply. “Five years ago. Up in Alberta. Too much snow. Too much horse. Too lonesome. But I know what stickin’ on the trail means, yeah. This here stuff is nothin’ but play, lined up alongside of some things I seen.”
The simple statement was a revelation to Douglas. Bill of Brooklyn, if left to himself, would have quit in disgust before now. But Ward, former R. N. W. M. P., would never abandon his quest until officially called in—or unofficially shot. He would imperturbably stick until the coming of the snows should make it impossible for any one to carry food to Steve without leaving a trail. And with the laying of that trail he would run his man to earth in no time. The sky suddenly looked very black for Steve.
But the blond man strove to keep his thoughts out of his face, and after a few more words he passed on, cudgeling his brain for some means of helping the fugitive to evade the remorseless power creeping closer and closer to his covert. A number of ways had previously occurred to him, but none of them was feasible in view of Steve’s own refusal to leave his native environment, his determination to die first “like a wolf—into the rocks or the trees.” Against that immovable decision what could he do? Nothing.
Nothing except the thing he now was trying to do—corner Snake Sanders. If cornered, Sanders might possibly be forced to clear Steve. The hope was slim, but still there was a chance—if he could corner Sanders! The thought revolved on itself and maddened him with its futility. The man Sanders was still eluding him, and, despite Ward’s nonchalance, undoubtedly was evading the officers also. And the telltale snow which must reveal Steve’s refuge might come at any time now.
Through Marion, he knew that the earth-bound boy had fought off his lung-pains and was somewhat stronger, though by no means well. For the present, therefore, he was not worrying over the youth’s condition. In fact, he had asked himself a couple of times why he should take so deep an interest in the fellow anyway; then he had left the question unanswered, merely telling himself that “the poor kid’s in hard luck, and he’d do as much for me—maybe.” He had not faced squarely the fact that the basic motive for his sympathy was his desire to aid the girl.
He had seen her several times since the death of the ha’nt, but only for short periods. Her mother, he learned, still was bitter against him, and—as perhaps might have been expected from one of her type—persisted in putting on him some of the blame for the death of her “man.” Marion herself, though frankly asserting that she had no patience with such an attitude, was pensive and rather reserved in manner. Therefore he refrained from unnecessary calls.