VIt was a dim, wide stretch of winter into which Drake and Bolles galloped from the howling pursuit. Twilight already veiled the base of Castle Rock, and as they forged heavily up a ridge through the caking snow, and the yells came after them, Bolles looked seriously at Dean Drake; but that youth wore an expression of rising merriment. Bolles looked back at the dusk from which the yells were sounding, then forward to the spreading skein of night where the trail was taking him and the boy, and in neither direction could he discern cause for gayety.
“May I ask where we are going?” said he.
“Away,” Drake answered. “Just away, Bolles. It’s a healthy resort.”
Ten miles were travelled before either spoke again. The drunken buccaroos yelled hot on their heels at first, holding more obstinately
