For full half an hour they searched without success. It was evident that the horse had not crossed, and Paul was inclined to believe that the rider had been swept off into the deep water below, when, hampered by his wounded steed, his death would almost inevitably follow. “Ha! look yonder!” cried Campbell, directing his companion’s attention over the river to a tall column of dense black smoke. “It’s the boys—they’ve found somethin’ on the other trail. We’d better go back.” As he uttered these words, the tall hunter suddenly paused, and bent his ear to the ground for a moment. Then rising he glided swiftly toward the arch-like opening between the two timber islands; reaching this he beckoned vehemently for Campbell to follow. “Look yonder!” he hissed, grasping Ned’s arm with convulsive force, his other hand outstretched toward the open prairie. “The woman—that strange rider—the one that decoyed Fred Hawksley from us!” gasped Campbell, in wonderment. “It’s her—shure! Kin you take her? Your critter’s fresh. Ketch her an’ you kin tell whar Fred’s gone to.” “I’ll do it or kill my horse. Stand aside, Ruel,” excitedly muttered Campbell. “Easy—she’s comin’ closter. Look to your girth—see that it don’t fail ye now. Ef you cain’t do better, drop ’ither her or her critter. Ha! she has caught sight o’ you. Durn it! why didn’t we hide closter!” It was true. Upon a ridge scarcely a mile distant was the strange woman, riding the spotted mustang that had served her so well when Fred Hawksley was in pursuit. The sun shining clearly, had outlined the two hunters clearly against the open background, and she had evidently caught sight of them, for she drew rein, gazing in their direction with one hand shading her eyes. As Campbell leaped upon his big bay horse, she wheeled the mustang and dashed back over the swell like an arrow. Touching his mettled horse, fairly warmed to his work by the morning’s ride, Ned sped swiftly over the rolling prairie, almost in the same tracks that he had made a week before, when pursuing the same creature. Would this chase end as disastrously? His brow darkened and his teeth gritted fiercely as he resolved to give the race a different termination. A fierce joy filled the young ranger’s heart as the woman rider again appeared in sight, for he could see that already he had lessened the interval between them. Both animals evidently were fresh, and it was to be a test of their superiority—a war of races. As they topped the next swell, Campbell’s face changed, He it was that was losing ground now. The spotted mustang stretched out like a grayhound, was running with the speed and evenness of an arrow’s flight. Bending forward, the strange rider seemed urging him on at top speed. Campbell’s spurs dripped well with blood, and his voice added its persuasion, but in vain. Slowly, surely the spotted mustang was drawing away from the big horse.