Dusk was closing in when George and the hired man whom Grant had sent with him reached the bluff and tethered their horses where they would be hidden among the trees.  This done, George stood still for a few moments, looking about.  A dark, cloud-barred sky hung over the prairie, which was fast fading into dimness; the wood looked desolate and forbidding in the dying light.  He did not think any one could have seen him and his companion enter it.  Then he and the man floundered through the undergrowth until they reached the sloo, where they hid themselves among the grass at some distance from the case, which had not been removed.

There was no moon, and a fresh breeze swept through the wood, waking eerie sounds and sharp rustlings among the trees.  Once or twice George started, imagining that somebody was creeping through the bushes behind him, but he was glad of the confused sounds, because they would cover his movements when the time for action came.  His companion, a teamster born on the prairie, lay beside him amid the tall harsh grass that swayed to and fro with a curious dry clashing.  He broke into a soft laugh when George suddenly raised his head.

“Only a cottontail hustling through the brush.  Whoever’s coming will strike the bluff on the other side,” he said.  “Night’s kind of wild; pity it won’t rain.  Crops on light soil are getting badly cut.”

George glanced up at the patch of sky above the dark mass of trees.  Black and threatening clouds drove across it; but during the past few weeks he had watched them roll up from the west a little after noon almost every day.  For a while, they shadowed the prairie, promising the deluge he eagerly longed for; and then, toward evening, they cleared away, and pitiless sunshine once more scorched the plain.  Grain grown upon the stiff black loam withstood the drought, but the light soil of the Marston farm was lifted by the wind, and the sharp sand in it abraded the tender stalks.  It might cut them through if the dry weather and strong breeze continued; and then the crop which was to cover his first expenses would yield him nothing.

“Yes,” he returned moodily.  “It looks as if it couldn’t rain.  We ought to go in more for stock-raising; it’s safer.”

“Costs quite a pile to start with, and the ranchers farther west certainly have their troubles.  We had a good many calves missing, and now and then prime steers driven off, when I was range-riding.”

“I haven’t heard of any cattle-stealing about here.”

“No,” said the teamster.  “Still, I guess we may come to it; there are more toughs about the settlement than there used to be.  Indians have been pretty good, but I’ve known them make lots of trouble in other districts by killing beasts for meat and picking up stray horses.  But that was where they had mean whites willing to trade with them.”

George considered this.  It had struck him that the morality of the country had not improved since he had last visited it; though this was not surprising in view of the swarm of immigrants that were pouring in.  Grant had pithily said that once upon a time the boys had come there to work; but it now looked as if a certain proportion had arrived on the prairie because nobody could tolerate them at home.  Flett and the Methodist preacher seemed convinced that there were a number of these undesirables hanging about Sage Butte, ready for mischief.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose the first thing to be done is to stop this liquor-running.”

They had no further conversation for another hour.  The poplars rustled behind them and the grass rippled and clashed, but now and then the breeze died away for a few moments, and there was a curious and almost disconcerting stillness.  At last, in one of these intervals, the Canadian, partly rising, lifted his hand.

“Listen!” he said.  “Guess I hear a team.”

A low rhythmic drumming that suggested the beat of hoofs rose from the waste, but it was lost as the branches rattled and the long grass swayed noisily before a rush of breeze.  George thought the sound had come from somewhere half a mile away.

“If they’re Indians, would they bring a wagon?” he asked.

“It’s quite likely.  Some of the bucks keep smart teams; they do a little rough farming on the reservation.  It would look as if they were going for sloo hay, if anybody saw them.”

George waited in silence, wishing he could hear the thud of hoofs again.  It was slightly daunting to lie still and wonder where the men were.  It is never very dark in summer on the western prairie, and George could see across the sloo, but there was no movement that the wind would not account for among the black trees that shut it in.  Several minutes passed, and George looked around again with strained attention.

Suddenly a dim figure emerged from the gloom.  Another followed it, but they made no sound that could be heard through the rustle of the leaves, and George felt his heart beat and his nerves tingle as he watched them flit, half seen, through the grass.  Then one of the shadowy objects stooped, lifting something, and they went back as noiselessly as they had come.  In a few more moments they had vanished, and the branches about them clashed in a rush of wind.  It died away, and there was no sound or sign of human presence in all the silent wood.  George, glad that the strain was over, was about to rise, but his companion laid a hand on his arm.

“Give ’em time to get clear.  We don’t want to come up until there’s light enough to swear to them or they make the reservation.”

They waited several minutes, and then, traversing the wood, found their horses and mounted.  The grass stretched away, blurred and shadowy, and though they could see nothing that moved upon it, a beat of hoofs came softly back to them.

“Wind’s bringing the sound,” said the teamster.  “Guess they won’t hear us.”

They rode out into the gray obscurity, losing the sound now and then.  They had gone several leagues when they came to the edge of a dark bluff.  Drawing bridle, they sat and listened, until the teamster broke the silence.

“There’s a trail runs through; we’ll try it.”

The trail was difficult to find and bad to follow, for long grass and willow-scrub partly covered it, and in spite of their caution the men made a good deal of noise.  That, however, seemed of less importance, for they could hear nothing ahead, and George looked about carefully as they crossed a more open space.  The trees were getting blacker and more distinct; he could see their tops clearly against the sky, and guessed that dawn was near.  How far it was to the reservation he did not know, but there would be light enough in another hour to see the men who had carried off the liquor.  Then he began to wonder where the latter were, for there was now no sign of them.

Suddenly, when the wind dropped for a moment, a faint rattle of wheels reached them from the depths of the wood, and the teamster raised his hand.

“Pretty close,” he said.  “Come on as cautious as you can.  The reservation’s not far away, and we don’t want them to get there much before us.”

They rode a little more slowly; but when the rattle of wheels and thud of hoofs grew sharply distinct in another lull, the man struck his horse.

“They’ve heard us!” he cried.  “We’ve got to run them down!”

George urged his beast, and there was a crackle of brush about him as the black trees streamed past.  The thrill of the pursuit possessed him; after weeks of patient labor, he felt the exhilaration of the wild night ride.  The trail, he knew, was riddled here and there with gopher holes and partly grown with brush that might bring his horse down, but this did not count.  He was glad, however, that the teamster was behind him, because he could see the dim gap ahead between the mass of trees, and he thought that it was rapidly becoming less shadowy.  The sound of hoofs and wheels was growing louder; they were coming up with the fugitives.

“Keep them on the run!” gasped the man behind.  “If one of us gets thrown, the other fellow will hold right on!”

A few minutes later George’s horse plunged with a crash through a break.

“We’re off the trail!” his companion cried.  “Guess it switches round a sloo!”

They floundered through crackling brushwood until they struck the track, and afterward rode furiously to make up the lost time, with the sound of wheels leading them on.  Then in the gap before them they saw what seemed to be the back of a wagon which, to George’s surprise, suddenly disappeared.  The next moment a figure carrying something crossed the trail.

“To the right!” cried the teamster.

George did not think his companion had seen the man.  He rode after him into the brush, and saw the fellow hurrying through it with a load in his arms.  The man looked around.  George could dimly make out his dark face; and his figure was almost clear.  He was an Indian and unusually tall.  Then he plunged into a screen of bushes, and George, riding savagely, drove his horse at the obstacle.

He heard the twigs snap beneath him, a drooping branch struck him hard; and then he gasped with horror.  In front there opened up a deep black rift in which appeared the tops of trees.  Seeing it was too late to pull up, he shook his feet clear of the stirrups.  He felt the horse plunge down, there was a shock, and he was flung violently from the saddle.  He struck a precipitous slope and rolled down it, clutching at twigs, which broke, and grass, until he felt a violent blow on his head.  After that he knew nothing.

It was broad daylight when consciousness returned, and he found himself lying half-way down a steep declivity.  At the foot of it tall reeds and sedges indicated the presence of water, and he realized that he had fallen into a ravine.  There was a small tree near by, against which he supposed he had struck his head; but somewhat to his astonishment he could not see his horse.  It had apparently escaped better than he had, for he felt dizzy and shaky and averse to making an effort to get up, though he did not think he had broken any bones.

After a while he fumbled for his pipe and found some difficulty in lighting it, but he persevered, and lay quiet while he smoked it out.  The sunlight was creeping down the gully, it was getting pleasantly warm, and George felt dull and lethargic.  Some time had passed when he heard the teamster’s shout and saw the man scrambling down the side of the ravine.

“Badly hurt?” he asked, on reaching George.

“No,” said George; “I don’t think it’s serious; I feel half asleep and stupid.  Suppose that’s because I hit my head.”

The other looked at him searchingly.  His eyes were heavy and his face had lost its usual color.

“You want to get back to your homestead and lie quiet a while.  I didn’t miss you until I’d got out of the bluff, and then the wagon was close ahead.”

“How was it you avoided falling in after me?”

“That’s easy understood in the daylight.  The trail twists sharply and runs along the edge of the ravine.  I stuck to it; instead of turning, you went straight on.”

“Yes,” said George, and mentioned having seen the Indian who left the wagon.  Then he asked:  “But what about the fellow you followed?”

His companion hesitated.

“Guess I’ve been badly fooled.  I came up with him outside the bluff when it was getting light, and he stopped his team.  Said he was quietly driving home when he heard somebody riding after him, and as he’d once been roughly handled by mean whites, he tried to get away.  Then as I didn’t know what to do, I allowed I’d keep him in sight until Constable Flett turned up, and by and by we came to a deserted shack.  There’s a well in the bluff behind it, and the buck said his team wanted a drink; they certainly looked a bit played out, and my mare was thirsty.  He found an old bucket and asked me to fill it.”

“You didn’t leave him with the horses!”

“No, sir; but what I did was most as foolish.  I let him go and he didn’t come back.  See how I was fixed?  If I’d gone into the bluff to look for him, he might have slipped out and driven off, so I stood by the beasts quite a while.  It strikes me that team wasn’t his.  At last Flett rode up with another trooper.  It seems Steve met them on the trail.”

George nodded.  Flett had arrived before he was expected, because Grant’s messenger had been saved a long ride to his station.

“Well?” he said.

“When we couldn’t find the buck, Flett sent his partner off to pick up his trail, and then said we’d better take the team along and look for you.  I left where the trail forks; he was to wait a bit.  Now, do you think you can get up?”

George did so, and managed with some assistance to climb the slope, where his companion left him and went off for the constable.  Flett arrived presently, and made George tell his story.

“The thing’s quite plain,” he said.  “The fellow you saw jumped off with the liquor, though one wouldn’t expect him to carry it far.  You say he was tall; did he walk a little lame?”

“It was too dark to tell.  I’m inclined to think I would know him again.”

“Well,” explained Flett, “this is the kind of thing Little Ax is likely to have a hand in, and he’s the tallest buck in the crowd.  I’ll stick to the team until we come across somebody who knows its owner.  The first thing we have to do is to find that case of liquor.”

Half an hour later the teamster came back carrying it, and set it down before the constable with a grin.

“Guess it’s your duty to see what’s in these bottles,” he remarked.  “Shall I get one out?”

“You needn’t; I’ve a pretty good idea,” answered Flett; adding meaningly, “besides, it’s the kind of stuff a white man can’t drink.”  Then he turned to George.  “I’d better take you home.  You look kind of shaky.”

“What about my horse?” George asked.

“Guess he’s made for home,” said the teamster.  “I struck his trail, and it led right out of the woods.”

George got into the wagon with some trouble, and the teamster rode beside it when they set off.

“You haven’t much to put before a court,” he said to Flett.

“No,” the constable replied thoughtfully.  “I’m not sure our people will take this matter up; anyway, it looks as if we could only fix it on the Indians.  This is what comes of you folks fooling things, instead of leaving them to us.”

“The police certainly like a conviction,” rejoined the teamster, grinning.  “They feel real bad when the court lets a fellow off; seem to think that’s their business.  Guess it’s why a few of their prisoners escape.”

Flett ignored this, and the teamster turned to George.

“I’ll tell you what once happened to me.  I was working for a blamed hard boss, and it doesn’t matter why I quit without getting my wages out of him, but he wasn’t feeling good when I lit out behind a freight-car.  By bad luck, there was a trooper handy when a train-hand found me at a lonely side-track.  Well, that policeman didn’t know what to do with me.  It was quite a way to the nearest guard-room; they don’t get medals for corraling a man who’s only stolen a ride, and he had to watch out for some cattle rustlers; so wherever he went I had to go along with him.  We got quite friendly, and one night he said to me, ’There’s a freight that stops here nearly due.  I’ll go to sleep while you get out on her.’”

The teamster paused and added with a laugh: 

“That’s what I did, and I’d be mighty glad to set the drinks up if I ever meet that man off duty.  We’d both have a full-size jag on before we quit.”

“And you’re one of the fellows who’re running Hardie’s temperance campaign!” Flett said dryly.