The river, at the end of the three-mile stretch, described a curve like a gigantic horseshoe. In its first beginning, the stream had attempted to run west by south; meeting the rough country, its course had been deflected toward the northwest; then, striking the wide-spreading base of Bear Butte, it had followed northeast and east on its way around the huge uplift. On clearing the butte, the Puyallup struck off due northwest, and so, in a dozen miles, came to Roscommon.
Peters, although he had not timed himself, knew he had been making excellent speed. He was seventeen miles from the ranch, and coming rapidly under the shadow of the butte. Markham could scarcely climb the massive “rise” and glissade into Roscommon ahead of him. So far as he had been able to discover, Markham was not yet anywhere near Bear Butte, nor——
“Peters! I say, Peters!”
Peters was amazed. Above his ringing steel a sharp cry echoed in the frosty air. It was Markham’s voice, and calling his name. Peters dug into the ice with the heels of his runners and came to a quick halt.
“That you, Porter?” he called.
“Yes, Nix. I’m in hard luck. Stop a minute, will you?”
The voice came from a shadowy overhang at the butte’s foot. Peters skated toward the black cavity, and was met by the dusky figure of Markham, limping out of the darkness and across the ice. Markham had his skis under his arm.
“By George!” cried Peters. “You got here in a hurry! What’s wrong?”
“I fell from a six-foot bank, as I was crossing the river, and splintered one of my skis,” was the answer, “and I can’t go on with the wood runners. I reckon I’ll take your skates,” Markham added coolly.
Peters caught his breath. “I reckon you won’t,” he returned, with spirit. “I’m going on to Roscommon, start the sheriff and a posse for the dry wash, and get a doctor for Bailey. What do you take me for?”