Down in the valley traveling became easier. So Tom urged his horse into a gallop, keeping up a good pace until the opposite range of hills rose before him. Here, again, the same difficulties were encountered.
“All the same, it isn’t going to stop little Stick-at-it,” mused Tom, determinedly. “If a Northwest Mounted Policeman can ride alone through places like this I guess I can.”
After another long, toilsome climb the traveler saw extending before him a great reach of undulating prairie—a sight which was, indeed, refreshing.
“Hooray!” he shouted.
Pulling up, he critically surveyed the topography of the land somewhat after the fashion of a general about to plan a strategic move.
Fully two miles away a river cut across the plain in a northwesterly direction.
“It may mean a swim,” he thought. “Come on, old boy.”
He began to thread his way down the hill, occasionally taking portions at a rattling pace.
At the base he stopped to give his horse a good rest and refresh himself with a few crackers and a drink of water from his canteen.
One thing greatly puzzled Tom Clifton: had Larry Burnham been left in the rear, or was his start sufficient to enable him to cross the hills in advance?