“Aye, aye!” answered his companion.
“Guess I’ll follow this thing up myself,” muttered Tom. “Great Scott! Just think—I’m going to take part in a chase after smugglers!”
This thought was enough to stifle his angry feelings, and make him disregard the shooting pains which were now becoming stronger.
“Get up!” he yelled; “get up!”
Although being without saddle or bridle placed him at a great disadvantage, his horse was a swift, fiery creature—a bundle of high-strung nerves, ready to dash off at headlong pace upon the slightest provocation.
“They won’t leave me very far behind,” muttered Tom, grimly. “I can guide this nag by knee-pressure as well as any cowboy.”
The Northwest Mounted policemen, who seemed to have given up hope of capturing the smugglers, rode furiously. At the pace they set there was great danger of Tom’s horse running away again. The Rambler knew this, and though in a reckless and determined spirit, kept all his faculties alert. The wind was rushing by him once more. An occasional bush seemed to spring up before his path and be sent flying behind. He saw his shadow slipping over the ground, waving and wobbling curiously as it passed over the inequalities.
And presently a tiny glow showed him his own camp-fire.
“Wish I had time to skip over for my saddle and bridle,” he thought; “but business just now is too pressing.”
The light of his fire quickly faded from view; new scenes sprang up before him. The hills approached a little nearer to the river. Steep and precipitous they were at this point, and grimly dark, sending a delicate shadow over the silvery gray of the prairie.