She did not show fight nor did she double on her tracks. Fleet as a bird, she flew over the hills, dropping into canyons, leaping draws, jumping rock heaps, until little by little she drew ahead of the Moose until she became no larger than a black coyote against the yellow hills. But Douglas would not allow the Moose to break from his swift trot. As long as he could keep the mare in sight he was content.
The sun was sailing high and the Moose was winded when the mare, cantering painfully along the ridge of a hill, stumbled and fell. She was up again at once but her gait slowed, perceptibly. In less than a half-hour Doug was within roping distance of her. As the lariat sung above her head, she half turned, gave Doug a look of anguished surprise, leaped sideways and disappeared up a crevice in a canyon wall. Douglas spurred the Moose in after her. They were in a little valley, thick grown with dwarf willow. The mare was not to be seen.
Now began a search that persisted till the Moose's sturdy legs were trembling. Douglas threaded the valley again and again. There was no exit save through the one crevice by which they had entered. He had all but concluded that the mare had been swallowed up by the earth when he found her trail, turning up the south wall. He spurred the Moose upward, and there in a clump of cedars he found her hiding. With a laugh he again twirled his rope and it slipped over the tossing black head. As the Moose turned and the rope tightened, the mare gave a scream that was like that of a human being in dire agony. For a moment she dragged back, then, head drooping, trembling in every muscle, she followed in.
Dusk was falling when Douglas made the camp. Charleton already had started a fire in the little cook-stove. He came out and examined the mare as well as the failing light and her extreme timidity permitted.
"She's a beauty, Doug. Don't believe she's over four years old. Any brand on her?"
"No. From the looks of her hoofs, I'd say she'd been born with the herd.
What luck did you have, Charleton?"
"None at all. I took after a young stallion and he wore my horse out. I know where he's bedding down to-night and I'll get him to-morrow or shoot him."
"You'll get him," said Douglas.
Charleton chuckled. "Nice thing if the mare is all we bring in. Make some coffee, Doug. The biscuits are baking. I could eat one of Sister's coyotes to-night." Charleton jammed another sage-brush knot into the little stove.
They were off at dawn. Douglas rode this day a young bay horse he had recently broken and named Pard. But though Pard was strong and willing, he lacked the skill of the Moose in running this rough country, and by noon Douglas was obliged to give up the pursuit of a dapple gray he had selected. He was far out on the plains when he made the decision to turn campward. To the distant south, in the Lost Chief ranges, a snowstorm was raging; but Pard and Douglas were dripping with sweat, under a sweltering sun. Strange, thimble-shaped green hills, dotted the plains about them. Douglas drew up at the base of one of these to rest his horse. Scarcely had he done so when a tiny herd of antelope trotted casually round the neighboring hillock. They halted, sniffed, and turned, but not before Douglas had drawn his saddle gun and fired at the leader. The creature went lame at once but disappeared with his fellows among the green hills.