The trail was immediately taken, and pursued with the most unwearying assiduity. Kingman, whose border experience had toughened his sinews and strengthened his muscle, was unwilling to pause for more than a moment’s rest. The great fear that his beloved was in the power of the renegade Johnson, was too tormenting to allow a moment’s rest. In a few hours they reached the spot where the fugitives had encamped. A brief examination revealed the gratifying fact that they were all comparatively a slight distance ahead, although there was no question but that they were proceeding quite rapidly. With this was made a startling and dreaded discovery—a white man was one of the captors. Such being the case it could be no other than Johnson the renegade. “Merciful heavens!” exclaimed Kingman, in agony. “We must soon overtake them or it will be too late.” “You’re too excited,” said Moffat, to whom the same question could be applied. “You’re too excited. Take things coolly.” “But how can I? How much longer is that man to desolate the frontier?” “I have an idea that he has run about the length of his rope. I somehow or other feel as though we were going to wipe him out.” “God grant it!” fervently exclaimed Kingman. “He has earned his death over and over again for the last dozen years.” An hour or two later Moffat announced that they were rapidly gaining upon the captors, and if they continued progressing as they were evidently doing at that time, the probabilities were that they would be overtaken by nightfall, or sooner. It was only when the hunter insisted upon it that our hero would consent to stop and take a few mouthfuls of food. There was a cool deliberation in the movements of Moffat that was strangely in contrast with the nervous restlessness of the lover. In fact they were just the men to engage in the enterprise. In the afternoon the trail showed signs of an increased gait upon those who were being pursued. This discovery gave Kingman increased anxiety. Finally the gathering darkness compelled them to give up the pursuit. “Just what I expected!” exclaimed Kingman, in despair. “We may now as well yield up, and go home.” The ranger touched him on the shoulder, and pointed ahead. “What does that mean?” The glimmer of a camp-fire was discernible through the trees. That it was the camp-fire of those whom they were searching for, there could not be a moment’s doubt. “All now depends upon keeping cool,” said the ranger. “We will steal up until we get a good view. You may take the Indian and I will take the renegade.” Side by side the two crawled cautiously forward. The Indian was preparing supper, while Pete Johnson was lying upon the ground, smoking a pipe. Irene sat on a fallen tree, her wrists bound together, and her head bowed as though she was giving away to her great woe. Abe Moffat looked at Kingman, and whispered so that he was just able to hear him. “Take your man, and be sure that you don’t miss, or he may not miss me.”