Although it was still early the day gave an indication of the heat that was yet to come. Not a cloud flecked the surface of the sky, which at the horizon became enveloped in a scintillating whitish haze that almost dazzled the eye.
“It certainly is a vast country,” thought Larry. He raised himself in his stirrups to gaze in all directions.
On every side it wore the same appearance—waving yellow bunch grass covering an undulating prairie, with here and there a low line of hills to break its monotonous uniformity.
And as he gazed upon this immensity of space it seemed to forcibly impress upon his mind the insignificance of all living things. How small the horsemen just ahead appeared!
“Great Scott!” he remarked, half aloud. “And yet Tom Clifton has an idea we may be able to strike that policeman’s trail.”
It all seemed so preposterous—so utterly without reason—that Larry burst into a peal of laughter, somewhat to the astonishment of Dick Travers who was cantering several yards in advance. Larry, however, without offering an explanation, spurred up his horse, soon overtaking Bob Somers and the half-breed at the head of the column.
“We’re forging ahead, Bob,” he said. “And gee, I certainly do hope we find some sort of shade by the time the mercury climbs up in the hundreds.”
“It’s going to be a scorcher, all right,” said Bob, cheerfully.
“What time ought we to reach this Cree village?”
“Late in the afternoon.”