Three men, heated with running, wet to the skin by the heavy rain, came to the shelving bank of the Red River. About three minutes earlier another runner had reached that spot. Without hesitation, he had ploughed a rapid course through the mud reach and sought the deeper water. The former had arrived in time to see the latter swimming towards the opposite shore, putting all the force he could muster into the arm strokes.
They stopped at the edge of the mud, with the knowledge that the adventurer had beaten them.
Lightning still played softly across the heavens. The officer pulled his revolver, then fired shot after shot into the deceptive red glow, glimmering over the waters round the indistinct and distant swimmer. With the shot that emptied the chamber they saw the fugitive drag himself to land by aid of the long willows which swept the stream. For a moment he paused at the foot of the tree-spread bank, to coolly wave his hand in their direction by way of farewell. The next minute he was swallowed up by the dark, pathless line of bush.
'No good following him there,' muttered one of the men resignedly.
The officer swore softly to himself. 'Follow! I should say not. He's as good a bushman as any nitchi!
Sullenly they began to retrace their steps, the officer wondering how he could summon courage to face his superiors; but before they had gone far they came across the hunter, tramping stolidly along the rapidly miring trail.
'Where is he?' cried the latter eagerly, as he recognised them.
The officer was sulkily silent, but one of the men answered for him. 'Safe in the bush.'
The hunter's face fell, for he had allowed himself to hope a capture might be made in the mud flats.