“Tell me your own movements now.”
“First, the ranch,” said Cameron. “Then straight for the Sun Dance.”
“All right, old boy. By-by and good-luck!”
Cameron found Billy waiting with Ginger at the door of the hotel.
“Thank you, Billy,” he said, fumbling in his pocket. “Hang it, I can't find my purse.”
“You go hang yourself!” said Billy. “Never mind your purse.”
“All right, then,” said Cameron, giving him his hand. “Good-by. You are a trump, Billy.” He caught Ginger by the mane and threw himself on the saddle.
“Now, then, Ginger, you must not fail me this trip, if it is your last. A hundred and twenty miles, old boy, and you are none too fresh either. But, Ginger, we must beat them this time. A hundred and twenty miles to the Big Horn and twenty miles farther to the Sun Dance, that makes a hundred and forty, Ginger, and you are just in from a hard two days' ride. Steady, boy! Not too hard at the first.” For Ginger was showing signs of eagerness beyond his wont. “At all costs this raid must be stopped,” continued Cameron, speaking, after his manner, to his horse, “not for the sake of a few cattle—we could all stand that loss—but to balk at its beginning this scheme of old Copperhead's, for I believe in my soul he is at the bottom of it. Steady, old boy! We need every minute, but we cannot afford to make any miscalculations. The last quarter of an hour is likely to be the worst.”
So on they went through the starry night. Steadily Ginger pounded the trail, knocking off the miles hour after hour. There was no pause for rest or for food. A few mouthfuls of water in the fording of a running stream, a pause to recover breath before plunging into an icy river, or on the taking of a steep coulee side, but no more. Hour after hour they pressed forward toward the Big Horn Ranch. The night passed into morning and the morning into the day, but still they pressed the trail.
Toward the close of the day Cameron found himself within an hour's ride of his own ranch with Ginger showing every sign of leg weariness and almost of collapse.