rider on his trail. It was only a question of time.
One morning in mid-December Kinney found a steer that had been killed not two hours before and he swung his horse into a steady trail trot on the big tracks in the fresh light snow.
Flash had bedded down on a slight rise of ground five miles from his kill. He had feasted heavily and was loath to leave his bed; not until the man was within two miles did he start.
When Kinney saw a dark speck trotting across the white snow two miles away he lifted his sorrel into a keen run and Flash started in on the first lap of the most terrible day of his life.
He felt stupid and sluggish, disinclined to travel fast or far but was forced to keep on and on. He ran in a straight-away toward the base of the Wind River hills, seventy miles away. The country was slightly rolling, almost flat. Often he increased his speed and drew away from the man behind. Always his gait slackened when the man was out of sight; then the wiry sorrel would appear over some ridge close behind, running swiftly on his trail. Each time he saw smoke or the low buildings of a ranch ahead he veered slightly to the right or left to miss the spot by at least a mile. After twenty miles as he passed a ranch he missed
