He drove on, and Stanton hurried in and flung the door to before he handed the telegram to Curtis.
When the corporal opened it his face grew intent.
“It’s from Sergeant Crane,” he said. “Glover was seen this morning near Norton, heading east on the Sand Belt trail.”
Stanton’s face fell. He had been in the saddle the greater part of the day, and the prospect of spending the night in pursuit of Glover did not appeal to him, though he knew it could not be avoided. The man was a notorious thief, whose last exploit had shown some ingenuity. Appearing at the house of a prosperous farmer, he had shown him a letter from a railroad contractor asking for the use of his best Clydesdale team on tempting terms. The farmer let the horses go and saw no more of them, while the contractor repudiated the letter. Glover was also supposed to have had a hand in one or two more serious affairs.
“I guess we’ll have to get after him,” said the trooper. “Where’ll he make for?”
“Jepson’s, sure. I don’t know another house near the Sand Belt he could reach to-night, and Jepson’s most as slippery a tough as Glover is.”
“It’s a mighty long ride,” said Stanton, “My ranger will stand for it; I don’t know about your gray.”
“He’ll have to make it,” Curtis answered shortly. “Get your saddle on.”
When Stanton went out Curtis stood up regretfully, for he was aching from a long journey in the stinging cold and the room looked very comfortable. An effort was required to leave it, and he had not much expectation of making a capture that would stand to his credit. Jepson and his brother were cunning rogues; Glover had escaped once or twice already, and Curtis realized that the chances were in favor of his returning after a fruitless ride. Nevertheless, his duty was plain; he had been trained to disregard fatigue and most physical weaknesses, and he went out resignedly into the arctic frost.
They set off a few minutes later, and Curtis had the depressing feeling that he was riding a worn-out mount, though there was some consolation in the thought that the range of the service carbine might, in case of necessity, make up for his lack of speed. When he met the biting north wind that swept the plain the warmth seemed to leave his body; his mittened hands stiffened on the bridle, and it was only resolution that kept him in the saddle. He would run less risk of frost-bite if he walked, but time would not permit this and the claims of the service are more important than the loss of a trooper’s feet or hands. If he were crippled and incapacitated, there was a small pension; it was his business to face the risks of the weather.