Douglas grunted impatiently and set his horse, Justus, to the trot. At the summit, still following trail, they pulled up to breathe the horses, then plunged downward. Half through the afternoon they followed the hoof marks. The biting wind rose and the sun warmed their backs as they crested the ridges. The wind fell and the sun darkened as they dropped into the valleys. Eagles on the hunt hung watchfully in the sky. Coyotes now and again sneaked across the trail before them. The two men threshed their arms across their chests or dropped their aching feet from the stirrups, and still the hoof marks of five horses led on before them.
Their shadows had grown long and blue-black on the trail before them when suddenly Douglas pulled Justus up, and Peter pushed up beside him. About a quarter of a mile farther on lay the half-way house. They were crossing a broad, flat valley into which the trail dipped lazily. Just before them, the tracks of two horses and a dog led sharply to the left and disappeared. Some one had fallen. There was a confusion of tracks, then a two-horse trail led on toward the half-way house. Without a word, they put their horses to a gallop that did not ease until they pulled in at the little log corral, of the half-way house. There were two horses, John's and old Johnny's, in the shed.
Crumpled on the doorstep was old Johnny, Doug's shot-gun across his
knees, at first glance, sound asleep. It was bitter cold. Douglas and
Peter pounded their numbed fingers, then examined the little old cowman.
He was, indeed, asleep, but his was the sleep that knows no waking.
"I thought he knew better than this," said Douglas, pitifully.
"He hadn't any outside clothes on." Peter fingered the cotton jumper. "Had a sudden thought and went off as crazy as Jude. Let's lift him into the house."
They opened the door. On the floor beside the stove lay John, his right leg bloody. They laid old Johnny carefully against the wall. Douglas stood rigidly staring at his father. Peter hurriedly lifted the wounded man's hands, then forced some whiskey down his throat.
"Start a fire, Doug!" he ordered.
Douglas did not stir. He stood, blue eyes haggard, cheeks frost-burned, staring at his father. John opened his eyes.
"Get my right boot off, for God's sake!" he said faintly.
"Wait!" said Douglas peremptorily, when Peter would have obeyed. "Give him some more whiskey so I can hear the story and be off. Those were Judith's tracks back, there."