Horse and rider were again no more than a speck upon the vast snowfield. Gordon, with an "express" rifle under his arm, took the long, swinging stride of the accomplished snowshoer. In an hour the speck upon the snow had not grown smaller.
At high noon, by the sun, upon a broad flat where tall grass held the snow, Gordon came almost within bullet range of the Sioux. An hour later, among a tangle of drifted ravines, there was an exchange of shots, and the Sioux's pony dropped in its tracks. The Indian dodged out of sight, and Gordon pushed wearily on with a grin of hate under his icicles.
He took up the Sioux tracks, and noted with satisfaction that the Indian's moccasined feet punched through the light crust at every other step. In just a little while!
But he followed an hour or more among a seemingly interminable tangle of gullies without catching a glimpse of the wary dodger. Then he emerged into a wider valley, to find that the artful rascal had escaped out of range and out of sight upon a wind-swept stretch of river ice.
Gordon ground his teeth and swept over the smooth surface, sweating, despite the sharp cold, from fierce exertion. At a turn in the river he saw the Sioux; but there were others, more than a score of them, mounted and approaching the runner. The mule-killer's camp or town was close at hand.
Exhausted from his long run, Gordon, in his own language, "threw up the sponge." He hastily sought the cover of river-drifts, and scooped himself a kind of rifle-pit. Then, with a pile of cartridges between his knees and slapping his hands to keep his fingers ready for action, he waited, meaning to do what execution he could before the end.
There was considerable parley among the Sioux, and then only a single Indian advanced toward the white man. This one came on foot within gunshot, then stopped and shook his blanket in token that he wanted to approach and talk.
Gordon laughed. The situation seemed to him grimly humorous. He motioned to the Indian to come on, and kept him well covered with his rifle. A moment later, however, he lowered his gun.
Whatever fate awaited Gordon, he knew that he stood in no danger of a treacherous stroke from the approaching Sioux. It was the chief, Red Cloud.
Gordon arose, and the chief came forward with a hand out-stretched. "My young man has killed your mules," was Red Cloud's greeting in the Sioux Tongue.