At a fast trot the mountain man was heading back toward the camp. Francis followed him. Once there, Mr. Grimes started on the beaver pelts, which were still damp, but dry enough to lash into bundles to be tied across the horses. He told Francis to mount up and go after the Indian ponies.

It took only a few minutes. His mare still smelled all right to the Indian ponies, so they didn’t shy away when he approached. But he had one bad moment, after he had gathered up the four ponies. While he was walking them back to camp, he rode past the Indian who had been thrown.

He was sitting on the ground, and if eyes could kill, Francis would have been dead. The Indian was trying to draw his bow, but Francis could see that an injured shoulder wouldn’t allow this action. In addition, one of his legs was twisted under him. Francis rode past quietly.

Mr. Grimes had been working like a fiend. All the pelts were lashed into bundles of twenty-five, stacked and waiting. The mules had been cut loose and scared off.

“Why don’t we use the mules?” Francis asked.

“Too slow,” came the quick answer. “And they’d need grain to move faster. Indian ponies can do it on grass—and we’re going to be needing some speed.”

That was the last word spoken for over an hour. Working hard, Mr. Grimes and Francis tied the pelts in bundles across the ponies. They were a bit skittish at first—smelling the almost-green hides—but Mr. Grimes kept them tied close to trees until their eyes quit rolling and they stopped blowing.

Then he and Francis mounted their horses and rode out. It had been almost two hours since the brave had gone for help. If the rest of the tribe were within fifteen miles of the camp, the brave and more warriors could be back any second.

Francis and Mr. Grimes rode hard, holding the horses at a steady lope. The Indian ponies kept up easily, and since the temperature had dropped considerably, it was cool enough to allow a decent run without heating the horses too much. South, down the canyon, in the direction they were heading, clouds were building into a gray wall that indicated snow or rain.

Twenty minutes later, back at the cabin, ten Crow braves dismounted and briefly studied the campsite and surrounding area.

They found many things. By feeling the manure left by the horses and finding it still warm, they knew that Mr. Grimes and Francis had only a short lead. By noting all the beaver traps left behind, they suspected that the two were running in fear.

The leader of the party, an old man—not too old to ride but old enough to have wisdom—smiled at two of the younger men, who were ready to ride their ponies into the ground to catch Mr. Grimes and Francis.