“I think we have him now.  The creek can’t be far away, and he’s west of the bridge,” he said.  “While we try to head him off you’ll follow behind him, Hilton.”

One trooper sent the spurs in, and, while the others swung off, rode straight on.  Courthorne was at least a mile from them, but they were nearer the bridge, and Payne surmised that his jaded horse would fail him if he essayed to ford the creek and climb the farther side of the deep ravine it flowed through.  They saw nothing of him when they swept across the rise, for here and there a grove of willows stretched out across the prairie from the sinuous band of trees in front of them.  These marked the river hollow, and Payne, knowing that the chase might be ended in a few more minutes, did not spare the spur.  He also remembered, as he tightened his grip on the bridle, the white face of Trooper Shannon flecked with the drifting snow.

The bluff that rose steadily higher came back to them, willow and straggling birch flashed by, and at last Payne drew bridle where a rutted trail wound down between the trees to the bridge in the hollow.  A swift glance showed him that a mounted man could scarcely make his way between them, and he smiled dryly as he signed to his companion.

“Back your horse clear of the trail,” he said, and there was a rattle as he flung his carbine across the saddle.  “With Hilton behind him, he’ll ride straight into our hands.”

He wheeled his horse in among the birches, and then sat still, with fingers that quivered a little on the carbine-stock, until a faint drumming rose from the prairie.

“He’s coming!” said the trooper.  “Hilton’s hanging on to him.”

Payne made no answer, and the sound that rang more loudly every moment through the grayness of the early daylight was not pleasant to hear.  Man’s vitality is near its lowest about that hour, and the troopers had ridden furiously the long night through, while one of them, who knew Lance Courthorne, surmised that there was grim work before him.  Still, though he shivered as a little chilly wind shook the birch twigs, he set his lips, and once more remembered the comrade who had ridden far and kept many a lonely vigil with him.

Then a mounted man appeared in the space between the trees.  His horse was jaded, and he rode loosely, swaying once or twice in his saddle, but he came straight on, and there was a jingle and rattle as the troopers swung out into the trail.  The man saw them, for he glanced over his shoulder, as if at the rider who appeared behind, and then sent the spurs in again.

“Pull him up,” cried Corporal Payne, and his voice was a little strained.  “Stop right where you are before we fire on you!”

The man must have seen the carbines, for he raised himself a trifle, and Payne saw his face under the flapping hat.  It was drawn and gray, but there was no sign of yielding or consternation in the half-closed eyes.  Then he lurched in his saddle as from exhaustion or weariness, and straightened himself again with both hands on the bridle.  Payne saw his heels move and the spurs drip red, and slid his left hand further along the carbine stock.  The trail was steep and narrow.  A horseman could scarcely turn in it, and the stranger was coming on at a gallop.