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 would turn back until they picked up his trail. So he reasoned, feeling more secure than his short distance from the horsethieves' lair warranted.

A little reflection on this phase of the situation set up that feeling of rising bristles along his back as he rode through the old clearing. He could not have been more than two hours on the road; at the outside he had not made more than seven or eight miles. And perhaps a good deal of that was thrown away in this divergence, which he questioned the wisdom of now. It would not do to stop. He must crowd on clear of that infernal, dripping forest, get out to the prairie where he could see a few rods at least, and draw an unhampered breath again.

There was a creek at the farther edge of this clearing, the road pitching down into it sharply. Simpson had no warning of it until he heard the horses splashing through it and the noise of the increasing waters from the downpour of rain among the stones. The stream was swift at the ford, but shallow. Lucky for him he had not come an hour later, Simpson knew, when it would have grown into an unfordable torrent. His horse lurched up the bank tight after the rest of the bunch, and there on his right was the light of some woods-dweller's cabin winking through the dripping trees.

The sight of that gleam gave Simpson an alarming start. The house stood near the creek; he was upon it before he knew it was there. It was not more than a hundred feet from the road; which was better here and gave evidence of more frequent use. Simpson had little hope of getting by without being heard. He cut in between the horses and the fence, riding forward to speed them up