Carl had not progressed more than a mile from his camp when he saw a dark object against the snow some distance in front of him.
At first he thought it might be a bush or a rock, so still it was in the moonlight.
But he could not remember of ever having seen either a rock or a bush in that part of the range.
Then he wondered if he was late at the meeting place, and that the other line rider had got tired of waiting for him, and had ridden forward upon his line to meet him.
This stimulated him to greater speed, and he pricked up his pony.
But as he got nearer the black blot on the snow there seemed to be something unusual about it, and he unconsciously slowed his animal down to a walk.
At last he got within hailing distance, and saw that it was a man on horseback that he had been approaching.
The man on night duty at the second sign camp was a cow-puncher named Follansbee, a short, reckless, yet amiable fellow, whom Carl knew well.
The rider who was awaiting him was an unusually large man, and bestrode an enormous horse. The two were as if they had been carved from ebony, as they stood silent and absolutely still, outlined sharply against the dazzlingly white background.
Something inside of Carl began to sink as he went on, slower and slower, his hand gripping the reins tightly, and holding back on them.