But it would never do to meet those half-dozen horsemen that had faced toward him, and were approaching at the same swinging gallop. Brinton diverged more to the left, thus leaving the trail, and they also changed their course, as if to head him off.
"If it is to be a race, I am throwing away my chances by helping to shorten the distance between us."
The fugitive now headed directly away from the horsemen, so that both parties were pursuing the same line. The youth looked back, at the moment that several blue puffs of smoke showed over the backs of the horses. The thudding reports came through the chilly air, and a peculiar whistling sound overhead left no doubt that the hostiles, great as was the separating space, had fired at the fugitive, who turned to take a look at Wolf Ear.
That individual discharged his gun the next moment. Brinton heard nothing of the bullet, but smiled grimly—
"He has changed his mind soon, but they have got to come closer before they hurt me. He is no great marksman anyway, or he would not have missed me a little while ago."
It was singular that it did not occur to young Kingsland that it was possible the Ogalalla had not fired at him at all. Not even when the horsemen checked their pursuit, and reining up their animals awaited the coming of the buck, who was riding like a hurricane, could he bring himself to think of Wolf Ear except as a bitter enemy, who for some subtle purpose of his own had declared a temporary truce.
"I suppose they think I shall be along this way again pretty soon, and they can afford to wait till I run into their trap," was the conclusion of Brinton, who headed his pony once more toward his home, and put him to his best paces.
"Come, Jack, there's no time to throw away; hard work is before you, and you must struggle as never before."
The snowfall which seemed for ever impending did not come. The few scattering flakes still circled and eddied through the air, as if reluctant to touch the earth, but no perceptible increase appeared in their number. The nipping air seemed to have become too cold to permit a snow-storm.
Brinton had set out fully prepared for such change of temperature. He wore a thick woollen cap, whose flaps were drawn down to his ears, while they were more than met by the heavy coat collar that was turned up, the garment itself being closely buttoned around his body. His rifle rested across the pommel of his saddle in front, and his gloved hands scarcely ever touched the rein which lay loose on his pony's neck. He was a capital horseman, and, with the understanding between him and his intelligent beast, could have got along without any bit at all.