Prescott told him what he had heard, and Stanton nodded.
“Then we had better get on. The horse I’ve got is pretty fresh.”
In another minute or two they had left the lights of the settlement behind and Prescott prepared for a third night on the trail. His eyes were heavy, long exposure to extreme cold had had its effect on him, and the warmth seemed to be dying out of his exhausted body. After a while they came to a straggling clump of birches with blurred masses of taller trees behind, where the trail broke in two. Stanton dismounted and struck a few matches, examining the snow carefully.
“Nothing to show which way Wandle’s gone,” he reported. “Somebody’s been along with a bob-sled not long ago and rubbed out his tracks. Anyhow, I’ll take the shorter fork.”
They separated; the trooper riding on in the moonlight and Prescott entering the gloom of the trees. He soon found the trial remarkably uneven. So far as he could make out, it skirted a number of low, thickly timbered ridges, swinging sharply up and down. In places it slanted awkwardly toward one edge; in others it was covered with stiff, dwarf scrub. One or two of the descents to frozen creeks were alarmingly steep and the Clydesdale stumbled now and then, but it kept its feet and Prescott felt that, everything considered, he was making a satisfactory pace. Stanton, he supposed, was two or three miles to the west of him, following the opposite edge of the high ground, but there was nothing to indicate which of them was the nearer to Wandle.
He rode on, wishing the light were better, for the faint gleam of the moon among the trees confused his sight and made it difficult to distinguish the trail, while to leave it might lead to his plunging down some precipitous gully. At length he saw a yellow glow ahead, and soon afterward came upon a shack in an opening. Small logs were strewn about it and among them stood tall piles of cordwood. The door opened as he rode up and a man’s dark figure appeared in the entrance.
“Have you seen a rig going south?” Prescott asked.
“I heard one, about seven or eight minutes ago. The fellow didn’t seem to be driving quick.”
“Thanks,” responded Prescott, and rode off with a feeling of satisfaction.
He had gained on Wandle, who had probably been delayed by some mischance on the trail. If the Clydesdale could be urged to a faster pace, he might overtake him, but this must be done before the fugitive could hire a fresh team. Next, he began to wonder what progress Stanton had made, for the relative positions of Wandle and the constable were now important. If Stanton were far enough ahead, he would reach the spot where the trails united before the absconder, in which case they would have him between them and it would be better for Prescott to save his horse’s strength, because speed might be required. On the contrary, if Stanton were not yet abreast of him, he ought to push on as fast as possible. Wandle, he was glad to remember, could not know how closely he was being followed.