and down the side of the turf together and give 'em the teeth of our
guns!" The Irishman dashed down the slope. In an instant, all followed,
or at least Trafford thought all followed, swinging their guns across
their saddles to be ready for this excellent foray. But while Pierre
rode hard, it was at first without the fret of battle in him, and he
smiled strangely, for he knew that the Indian had disappeared as they
rode down the slope, though how and why he could not tell. There ran
through his head tales chanted at camp-fires when he was not yet in
stature so high as the loins that bore him. They rode hard, and yet they
came no nearer to that flying herd straining on with white streaming
breath and the surf of snow rising to their quarters. Mile upon mile,
and yet they could not ride these monsters down!

Now Pierre was leading. There was a kind of fury in his face, and he
seemed at last to gain on them. But as the herd veered close to a wall
of stalwart pines, a horseman issued from the trees and joined the
cattle. The horseman was in scarlet from head to foot; and with his
coming the herd went faster, and ever faster, until they vanished into
the mountain-side; and they who pursued drew in their trembling horses
and stared at each other with wonder in their faces.

"In God's name what does it mean"? Trafford cried.

"Is it a trick of the eye or the hand of the devil"? added Shon.

"In the name of God we shall know perhaps. If it is the hand of the
devil it is not good for us," remarked Pierre.

"Who was the man in scarlet who came from the woods"? asked Trafford of
the half-breed.