"If you don't mind waiting," Blake said, while they made a hasty meal,
"I'll follow him half-way to Sweetwater, if necessary. You see, I
haven't much expectation of overtaking him before he leaves the horse.
It's faster than the pony; and we don't know when he started."
"That's so. Still, you're tough; and I guess the first hard day's ride will be enough for your partner."
Five minutes later Blake was picking his way as fast as possible through the woods. It was a cool morning, and when he had gone a few miles the ground was fairly dear. By noon he was in more open country, where there were long stretches of grass, and after a short rest he pushed on fast. Bright sunshine flooded the waste that now stretched back to the south, sprinkled with clumps of bush that showed a shadowy blue in the distance. Near at hand, the birch and poplar leaves glowed in flecks of vivid lemon among the white stems; but Blake rode hard, his eyes turned steadily on the misty skyline. It was broken only by clusters of small trees; nothing moved on the wilderness of grass and sand ahead of him.
He felt tired when evening came, but he pressed on to find water before he camped. Benson was a weakling, who would no doubt give them further trouble; but they had taken him in hand, and Blake had made up his mind to save him from the rogue who preyed upon his failings.
It was getting late when he saw a faint trail of smoke curl up against the sky from a distant bluff, and on approaching it he checked the jaded pony. Then he dismounted and, picketing the animal, moved cautiously around the edge of the woods. Passing a projecting tongue of smaller brush, he saw, as he had expected, Benson sitting beside the fire. Blake stopped a moment to watch him. The man's face was weary, his pose was slack, and it was obvious that the life he had led had unfitted him for a long, hard ride. He looked forlorn and dejected; but as Blake moved forward, he roused himself, and his eyes had an angry gleam.
"So you have overtaken me! I thought myself safe from you!" he exclaimed.
"You were wrong," Blake replied quietly. "If it had been needful, I'd have gone after you to Clarke's. But I'm hungry, and I'll cook my supper at your fire." He glanced at the provisions scattered about. "You haven't had much of a meal."
"It's a long drink I want," Benson growled.
Blake let this pass. He prepared his supper, and offered Benson a portion.
"Try some of that," he urged, indicating the light flapjacks fizzling among the pork in the frying-pan. "It strikes me as a good deal more tempting than the stuff you have been eating."