Somewhat reluctantly, Dick followed suit. He still carried his revolver at his belt. He puffed as he ran. The blood throbbed in his ears. The continued exertion had begun to tell. On and on he raced, slowly shortening the distance that separated them. Thirty yards! Twenty yards! He was only a rod or two behind him now, gaining at every leap. But with every leap his heart felt as if it would burst within his body. Finally, in despair, he had commenced to slacken his pace, when he saw the runner ahead stumble over some obstruction in the path and fall heavily.
When the Indian rose choking to his knees, Dick stood over him, revolver in hand.
“I’ve got you, you human greyhound,” he panted. “You can come back with me now. The race is over.”
The Indian, of course, did not understand a word of English. He rose, brushing the snow from his garments.
“Come back with me, brother of the deer,” ordered Dick in Cree. “Come over on the path here and start back toward the village.”
His captive obeyed. They marched back, puffing like two locomotives, one a little shamefacedly, the other exultantly.
“You run very fast,” said Dick admiringly, as he drove the other on, feeling very magnanimous in his victory.
The other grunted.
“You have feet more swift than a wolf,” Dick went on. “It was unfortunate for you that you fell.”
Again the Indian grunted.