Evidently this was the man’s reasoning. He swung to the right, making for the refuge of the rocks. Presently he glanced back to see if he was followed and how closely. The end of the ski must have caught under a rock beneath the snow, for the man was flung forward to his face. The binder of a ski had broken. He rose quickly, caught up the long snowshoe, and ran forward at a gait between a hobble and a shuffle. Tug did not pursue directly. He had no desire to stop any of the bullets left in the chambers of the revolver. Instead of taking the trail made for him, he broke a new one that led to the summit of the rock-rim above the boulder bed. There was a chance that in doing this he might lose his man, but it was a chance that had to be taken. His guess was that the refugee would find a hiding-place in the rocks and would stay there long enough, at any rate, to mend the broken strings of the ski. From the rock-rim Hollister looked down upon the boulder bed through the thick snow. He made out a crouched figure below. Satisfied that his victim was not still traveling, he examined the terrain to work out a plan of campaign. A heavy snow comb yawned above the rock-rim. This might very well serve his purpose. Using one of his skis as a lever, he loosened the heavy pack of snow. It moved at first very slowly, but went at last with a rush. There was a roar as it plunged over the bluff and tore a way down to the rocks below. The slide gathered momentum as it went. Hollister peered down. The crouched figure was gone, had been buried in the giant billow of white. The engineer refastened his ski, took a few swinging strokes forward, and came to a smooth incline. Down this he coasted rapidly. The buried man was just struggling out of the white mass when a hand closed on his coat collar. It dragged him from the pack and held him firmly down. Not till Tug made sure that the revolver was missing did he let the man rise. “Wot’ell’s eatin’ youse?” the rescued man growled, snarling at him. Tug Hollister stood face to face with the tramp he knew by the name of Cig. Recognition was simultaneous. “What were you doing at my camp?” “Aw, go chase yoreself. I ain’t been near your camp.” “All right, if that’s your story. We’ll go back there now. The sheriff wants you.” The evil face of the crook worked. Out of the corner of his twisted mouth he spoke venomously. “Say, if I had my gun I’d croak youse.” “But you haven’t it. Get busy. Dig out your skis.” “Nothin’ doing. Dig ’em yoreself if youse want ’em.” Hollister knew of only one argument that would be effective with this product of New York’s underworld. He used it, filled with disgust because circumstances forced his hand. When Cig could endure no longer, he gave way sullenly. “’Nuff. But some day I’ll get you right for this. I aimed to bump you off, anyhow. Now I soitainly will. I ain’t forgot you rapped on me to that guy Reed.”