His eyes were on the horizon now. And it was his alert look that finally decided the doubting man. He swung his horse round, and rode for the river.
“So long,” he called back. But there was no word of thanks. Neither had the other any response to his farewell.
Jim watched him till he disappeared, then he turned again to the rising grassland and watched for the coming of the hunters. And as he watched his thoughts reverted to the doctrine of the one-way trail. Will was traveling it hard. For him there was certainly no turning back now.
But his horse had ceased grazing again, and once more stood with ears pricked, gazing up the slope. Its master 293 understood. This was no moment to consider abstract problems, however they might interest him. Stern reality lay ahead of him, and he knew he was in for an unpleasant time. He linked his arm through his horse’s reins, and, with head bent, trailed slowly up the incline, pausing and stooping to examine the hoof-prints of Will Henderson’s horse, as though it were a trail he had just discovered, and was anxious to learn its meaning. He was thinking hard the while, and calculating his chances when the hunters should come up.
While he appeared to be studying the track so closely, he yet was watching the hill-crest ahead. He knew the men were rapidly approaching, for the rumble of galloping horses was quite distinct to his well-trained ears. He wanted his intentness to be at its closest when the gang first discovered him.
He had his wish. As the men topped the ridge he was on one knee studying a clearer imprint than usual. Doc Crombie and Smallbones, riding at the head of a party of five men, saw him, and the latter shouted his joy.
“Gee! we’ve got him! Say–––” He broke off, staring hard at the kneeling figure. The outline was familiar. Suddenly Jim stood up, and the little man instantly recognized him. “Guess you lost that three-year-old ‘driver,’ Doc,” he cried, his face alight with malice. “Ther’s our man, an’––it’s Jim Thorpe. I thought I rec’nized him from the first, when he broke cover. This is bully!”
But the stern-faced doctor had no answer for him. His eyes were fixed on the man, who now stood calmly waiting for him to approach. Experienced in such matters 294 as he was, he looked for the threatening gun in Jim Thorpe’s hand. There was none. On the contrary, the man seemed to be waiting for them in the friendliest spirit. There was his horse, too; why was he on foot? It struck him that the riddle wanted more reading than Smallbones had given it. He was not so sure he had yet lost that three-year-old “driver.”
Jim made no change of position as they clattered up. Smallbones was ahead, with a gun leveled as he came.
“Hands up! Hands up, you dogone skunk, or I’ll blow your roof off!” he cried fiercely.