"I'm going to trail those horse-tracks," said Hare.
He tore down a portion of the fence enclosing the flume, and
gave Silvermane a drink, then put him to a fast trot on the white
trail. The tracks he had resolved to follow were clean-cut. A few
inches of snow had fallen in the valley, and melting, had softened
the hard ground. Silvermane kept to his gait with the tirelessness
of a desert horse. August Naab had once said fifty miles a day
would be play for the stallion. All the afternoon Hare watched the
trail speed toward him and the end of Coconina rise above him. Long
before sunset he had reached the slope of the mountain and had
begun the ascent. Half way up he came to the snow and counted the
tracks of three horses. At twilight he rode into the glade where
August Naab had w
