Creel had a few hours start of them, but he was walking. With light hearts, feeling confident of success, the boys cantered away. Soon the miles wound away behind them. They pressed their ponies forward, urging them to their greatest speed. Time passed quickly. They had now begun to scan the trail ahead, in the expectation of seeing the queer, shambling figure of the old recluse. They galloped past a party of Indians, then two prospectors, trudging along, weighted down by heavy shoulder-packs, and finally drew up at a wayside cabin, inhabited by a half-breed trapper. Dick questioned him:
“Did an old man stop here not so very long ago? Walked with a stoop, face covered with a heavy beard, hair straggling in his eyes. Did you see him?”
“Oui, m’sieur. I see him two, three hour ago. Him ver’ fine fellow. Plenty money. I have nice horse. He buy et.”
Dick had not expected this. The news had come as a shock. He blinked.
“Rotten luck!” he exclaimed irritably.
“What you say, m’sieur?”
Dick did not answer. He was making a rough calculation. They had already come fifteen or sixteen miles at top speed. No longer were their ponies fresh. Creel had the advantage. It would be absolutely impossible to overtake him now. Apparently, Toma held the same opinion.
“No use go on now,” he declared grimly.
Dick turned to the half-breed.
“You haven’t any more fresh horses?”