"It helps, anyhow," whispered the little man to himself.

The gaunt man with the scarred lip stared impassively. "They can't
be over the valley," he said. "If we ride hard--"

He glanced at the white horse and paused.

"Curse all white horses!" said the man with the silver bridle,
and turned to scan the beast his curse included.

The little man looked down between the mclancholy ears of his steed.

"I did my best," he said.

The two others stared again across the valley for a space. The gaunt
man passed the back of his hand across the scarred lip.

"Come up!" said the man who owned the silver bridle, suddenly.
The little man started and jerked his rein, and the horse hoofs
of the three made a multitudinous faint pattering upon the withered
grass as they turned back towards the trail. . . .

They rode cautiously down the long slope before them, and so came
through a waste of prickly, twisted bushes and strange dry shapes
of horny branches that grew amongst the rocks, into the levels below.
And there the trail grew faint, for the soil was scanty, and the only
herbage was this scorched dead straw that lay upon the ground.
Still, by hard scanning, by leaning beside the horses' necks and
pausing ever and again, even these white men could contrive to follow
after their prey.