At the river’s edge, Peters screwed the skates into his heels, pulled the straps tight, and buckled them, then put on his bearskin gloves and struck out. He was well away toward Rawson’s Bluff before Markham made his first crossing of the river, near the ranch house.
The ice was in splendid condition. A strong wind had swept it clean of loose snow, save here and there at the turns, where drifts had formed. Then a slight thaw, a few days before, had been followed by a tightening of the cold, and all rough spots had been smoothed away.
Markham, whose steel runners were the very last word in all-metal skates, excelled as a figure skater. He could cut all sorts of graceful figures on the ice, and, with Hesther Morton, would do a sort of waltz, which the girl seemed to consider rare sport. Peters, on the other hand, was not proficient at that sort of thing. He preferred straight skating, possibly because he realized that fancy capers were quite out of his line. The steel, wood, and leather with which he was shod seemed best adapted to straightaway work, anyhow.
Peters knew every foot of the river between the ranch and Roscommon. He had covered that long stretch of ice several times while getting himself in trim for the skating race at Devil’s Lake. There was “white ice” under the shelter of the bluff and the butte, caused by a fall of snow while the first crystals were forming. This had been full of air bubbles, and had been treacherous up to the time the severe frost had followed the thaw. After that the liquefied snow had congealed into a sound and superlative smoothness. There was not a spot to be feared on the entire course.
With long, steady, swinging strokes, Peters swept around the first turn and came south on the stretch which Markham was to cross in order to thread a seam through Rawson’s Bluff. But, although the moonlight was brilliant upon the sparkling snow crust, he could see nothing of his rival. It might be, he reasoned, that Markham had already effected his second crossing of the river, and was even then in the gash that cut through the bluff. Peters ground his teeth, and, with his runners ringing musically, passed like a gliding specter around the bluff’s base. Three miles farther, and he might obtain a view of Markham as he emerged from the shallow defile and pushed over the open levels toward the butte.
He was having queer thoughts about Markham. Why had the fellow protested against any attempt to reach Roscommon and notify the sheriff? Then, in the face of his protests, why had he determined to pit his skis against Peters’ skates—to accomplish the thing which he had averred could not be accomplished?
There was but one answer to this, according to Peters’ conclusions. Markham could not bear to think that Peters might succeed, that he might win favorable notice from Uncle Silas, and that he might gain some credit in the eyes of Hesther Morton! Markham was not thinking of saving the horses; no, he was impressed with the idea of his own prestige and importance, and he could not take a chance of losing out to a “saphead.” That was all there was to it, so Peters believed.
A determination to win that race and save the stolen stock grew stronger and stronger in Peters’ breast. Here, after the miserable failures at Devil’s Lake, was a most unexpected opportunity to retrieve himself. It was his business to make the most of it.
Three straight miles lay ahead of him to the westward of the bluff. Coming down the stretch like the wind, he surveyed the shadowy opening of the swale, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Markham. But the ski runner was not in sight. In the distance, the sparkling crest of Bear Butte could be vaguely determined; yet, between the bluff and the butte no dusky figure could be seen toiling on the skis.
“He hasn’t cleared the bluff yet,” thought Peters exultantly. “I’m leading him, by ginger!”