They were but two flitting shadows
amid that vast desolation of plain and mountain, their horses' hoofs
barely audible. What imaginings of evil, what visions of the past, may
have filled the half-crazed brain of the leading horseman is
unknowable. He rode steadily against the black night wall, as though
unconscious of his actions, yet forgetting no trick, no skill of the
plains. But the equally silent man behind clung to him like a shadow
of doom, watching his slightest motion--a Nemesis that would never let
go.
When the first signs of returning day appeared in the east, the two
left their horses in a narrow canyon, and crept to the summit of a
ridge. Below lay the broad valley of the Powder. Slowly the misty
light strengthened into gray, and became faintly tinged with crimson,
while the green and brown tints deepened beneath the advancing light,
which ever revealed new clefts in the distant hills. Amid those more
northern bluffs a thin spiral of blue smoke was ascending. Undoubtedly
it was some distant Indian signal, and the wary old plainsman watched
it as if fascinated. But the younger man lay quietly regarding him, a
drawn revolver in his hand.
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