“No,” said Grant sharply. “He would pass your place.”
Muller nodded. “He come in und der supper take. Why is he not here? I, who ride by der hollow, one hour after him start make.”
Breckenridge glanced at Grant, and both sat silent for a second or two. Then the former said, “I’m half afraid we’ll have to do without those dollars, Mr. Muller. Shall I go round and roll the boys up, Larry?”
Grant only nodded, and, while Breckenridge, dragging on his fur coat, made for the stable, took down two of the rifles and handed one to Muller.
“So!” said the Teuton quietly. “We der trail pick up?”
In less than five minutes the two were riding across the prairie towards Muller’s homestead at the fastest pace attainable in the loose, dusty snow, while Breckenridge rode from shanty to shanty to call out the men of the little community which had grown up not far away. It was some time later when he and those who followed him came up with his comrade and Muller. The moon still hung in the western sky and showed the blue-grey smear where horse-hoofs had scattered the snow. It led straight towards a birch bluff across the whitened prairie, and Breckenridge stooped in his saddle and looked at it.
“Larry,” he said sharply, “there were two of them.”
“Yes,” said Grant. “Only one left Muller’s.”
Breckenridge asked nothing further, but it was not the first time that night he felt a shiver run through him. He fell behind, but he heard one of the rest answer a question Grant put to him.
“Yes,” he said. “The last man was riding a good deal harder than the other fellow.”