All that mortal day the buckskin pounded monotonously ahead.  The sun rose to the meridian, gazed warmly down upon them, softened the surface of the frozen snow until the crunch sounded mellower, and slowly descended to their left.  The dainty ears of the pony, as the day waned, flattened close to his head.  Foam gathered beneath the saddle and between the animal’s legs; but doggedly relentless as his rider, he forged ahead.  Much in common had these two beings; more closely than ever was their comradery cemented that day.  Many times, with the same motion as at first, the man had leaned over and patted that muscular neck, dark and soiled now with perspiration.  “Good old Buck,” he said as to a fellow, “good old Buck!” and each time the set ears had flicked intelligently in response.

It was nearing sunset when they came in sight of the hills bordering the river, and the last mile Ben drew the buckskin to a walk.  The chain of hoof-tracks had changed much since the morning.  The buckskin could equal the strides of the other now, and the follower was content.  The evenings were very short at this season of the year, and they would not attempt to go farther to-night.  At the margin of the stream Ben rode along until he found a spot where the full strength of the current ate into the bank.  There on the thinner ice he hammered with the butt of his heavy rifle until he broke a hole; then, the dumb one first, the two friends drank their fill.  After that, side by side, they walked back until in the shelter of a high knoll the man found a space of perhaps half an acre where the grass, thick and unpastured, was practically bare of snow.  Here he removed saddle and bridle, and without lariat or hobble—­for they knew each other now, these two—­he turned the pony loose to graze.  He himself, with the kit and blanket and a handful of dead wood, went to the hill-top, where he could see for miles around, built a tiny fire, an Indian’s fire, made a can of strong black coffee, and ate of the jerked beef he had brought.  Later, he cleared a spot the size of a man’s grave, and with grass and the blanket built a shallow nest, in which he stretched himself, his elbow on the earth, his face in his hand, thinking, thinking.

The night came on.  As the eastern sky had done in the morning, so now the west crimsoned gloriously, became the color of blood, then gradually shaded back until it was neutral again, and the stars from a few scattering dots increased in numbers and filled the dome as scattered sand-grains cover a floor.  Darkness came, and with it the slight wind of the day died down until the air was perfectly still.  The cold, which had retreated for a time, returned, augmented.  As though it were a live thing moving about, its coming could be heard in the almost indistinguishable crackling of the snow-crust.  As beneath a crushing weight, the ice of the great river boomed and crackled from its touch.