to the extent of driving it out upon the desert, for the hoof-prints of a galloping horse were plainly marked, evidently fresh, and led from the other trail past its point of contact and out to lose itself in the welter of the heat.
He turned and, at the best pace he could spur from his broncho, rode into the embrace of that implacable wilderness of sun and sand. Within half an hour he had lost touch completely with the hills that crouched behind him—had forgotten them even as he had forgotten Rose and Barcus in the torments he was suffering for the sake of that strange woman who loved him and whom he did not love.
For now he was reminded that he had broken his fast neither by bite nor sup. The heat seemed to tear the very breath from his nostrils, thirst had him by the throat like a mortal enemy, giddiness assailed him intermittently.
At long intervals he would check the broncho and, feeling in the saddle, endeavour to sweep the desert with his binoculars. Ordinarily, they discovered nothing, but ever the trail of hoof-prints lured him on.
And toward the middle of the afternoon he fancied that something rewarded one such effort, something that seemed to move like a weary horse with a human figure bound to its back. He was persuaded he had gained upon the chase. And he pressed on.
But now phenomena were discernible which, had he
