Could it be that equally good fortune had befallen Tim Brophy? Had he been able to throw his pursuers off the track for the time? It seemed impossible that two such providences should come simultaneously to the fugitives. The Irishman was by no means as fleet of foot as Warren, and with the majority of the pursuers dashing after him, only the worst result was to be feared.
"Some of them will soon be here," was the conclusion of the youth, as he stood sorely perplexed as to what he should do; "if I remain, I shall have half a dozen of them around me, and then it will be all up; but what about Tim?"
In his chivalrous devotion to his comrade, he now began withdrawing from his dangerous position, but trended to the right as he faced his enemies, with the object of getting near Tim, and with the hope that he might be of help to him in his desperate strait.
He shuddered as he glanced down at the ground and observed the prints he made in the snow. There could be no delay in tracing him, no matter what direction he might take. It must be the same with his friend, who, despite any advantage gained at the beginning of his last flight, could be readily run down, if the Sioux preferred that to "winging" him while in full flight.
CHAPTER XXIII.
DOWN!
Meanwhile Tim Brophy found himself in the hottest quarters of his life.
Inspired by the same desperate thought of his friend, he strove, with all the energy he possessed, to widen the space between himself and his pursuers. Less fleet of foot than they, it took but a few seconds to show him the hopelessness of the task.
None of the trees was large enough to give protection to his body, but seeing no rocks that could serve him, he dodged behind the first trunk that presented itself. This was barely six inches in diameter, and was no better than nothing at all.