Icy fingers gripped the engineer's heart. He felt
suddenly weak and cold.
Raising a shaking hand to his forehead, Wentworth withdrew it wet and
glistening with sweat. His brain conjured fantastic stories of the
powers of the Indian tracker, and fearfully he scanned the rocks over
which he had come. Suddenly it occurred to him that if the man were
still upon his trail, he would have come up with him before this.
Evidently the tracker was wasting no time on the broad rocky ridge, but
taking it for granted that his quarry would proceed on his way, figured
on picking up the trail again in the softer ground of the next valley;
in which case he would soon discover his error and circle to correct
it. Discarding his pack, the terrified man swiftly descended the ridge
and crossed the _brule_ at a run. Gaining the shelter of the forest he
paused and looked back. The wide clearing was tenantless, and
regaining his breath, he resumed his flight, crashing through patches
of underbrush, and splashing through streams until, just at dusk, the
lights of the Gods Lake campfires came into view.
Completely done up, he staggered into his cabin and, closing the door,
fell sprawling upon his bunk, where for an hour he lay while his
overtaxed muscles slowly regained their strength. Then he stood up,
lighted his candle, and proceeded to remove the record of his mad
flight from his scratched skin and torn clothing.
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