“Listen!” commanded the outlaw. “They’re coming in.”
As they harkened Ward’s voice rose clearly. “You can’t miss the camp,” he was saying, as if speaking to some one at a distance. “Just keep the trail in the snow and you’ll find them. I’m sorry we can’t put you up—but you see how it is.”
“They’re going!” exclaimed Alice. “Thank God, they’re going!”
“It can’t be they’ll go without searching the shack,” the fugitive muttered, in no measure relaxing his attitude of watchful menace. “They’re playing a game on us.”
Again the latch clicked, and this time it was Ward who confronted the outlaw’s revolver mouth.
“It’s all right,” Ward called, instantly understanding the situation. “They’re gone. The old man was about played out, for they’ve been fighting snow all day, but I told him we couldn’t take care of them here and they have gone on down to the camp. He thinks you got over the divide. You are all right for the present.”
“They’ll come back,” replied the other. “It only puts the deal off a few hours. They’ll return, trailin’ the whole camp after them. What can I do? My horse is down there in the herd.”
“That’s bad,” exclaimed Ward. “I wonder if I could get him for you?”
“If I had him he’s weak and hungry, and the high places are feet deep in drifts. It doesn’t signify. I’m corralled any way you look at it, and the only thing left is to fight.”
“There’s our trail to the glacier,” Ward musingly suggested; “it’s a pretty deep furrow—you might make it that way.”