It was about three on the same afternoon that he pulled in his horse very sharply and swinging about gazed back. He was not sure that he had heard anything. It was more a premonition than anything else, but a northerner pays close heed to such things. Everything was very lifeless and dreary on the road he had come. There was no sign of man or beast. With a grim look in his eyes Muckle John continued his journey. But about an hour later he swerved behind a ledge of rock and cantered swiftly up the hill, keeping behind a huddle of crag for some hundred yards. Then turning as rapidly he watched the back trail. Several minutes passed and there was no sign of living thing. Presently, however, something moved ever so slightly just where the last rock towered out of the heather. A man's head rose and fell again. With a faint smile Muckle John continued his way. His horse was very tired--twice it had nearly fallen through pure weariness. That it could carry him little further he realized at once. He did not know how many pursuers were on his track, but he put them down as Highland caterans ready to cut a throat for a purse. In that case they would wait till he slept, and rush upon him. It was, therefore, a matter of life or death for him to find a place of refuge before the sun fell. The evening was closing in and he was so tired that he nodded as he rode. Nowhere in that rolling desolate country could he see a house or any trace of clachan or croft. And behind him waiting for darkness were men as crafty and cruel as Indians and just as patient. If not to-night then to-morrow, and he might wander over--miles of heather for days on end. Meanwhile the brain of Muckle John was working. The future lay open to him like a man reading a map. He must throw them off the scent or perish. If not to-night--to-morrow. He would never come to grips with them--that he knew too well. It would be in his heavy sleep in the blackness of a Highland night. It must not be thought Muckle John was much concerned at the prospect. Those were days when life was not held dearly, and when a soldier of fortune might be hard put to it several times in a week. It was more the indignity of the business that irritated him. He was not accustomed to being stalked like a young stag. Most men gave Muckle John a wide berth.