Soon the trail became spotted with blood, where the thorns of the prickly pear had pierced his shoeless foot.
After a run of twelve miles we saw Bevins crossing a ridge two miles ahead.

We reached the ridge just as he was descending the divide toward the South Platte, which at this point was very deep and swift.
If he got across the stream he stood a good chance of escape.

We pushed our horses as fast as possible, and when we got within range I told him to halt or I would shoot.

He knew I was a good shot, and coolly sat down to wait for us.
"Bevins, you gave us a good chase," I said, as we rode up.
"Yes," he returned calmly, "and if I'd had fifteen minutes' more start and got across the Platte you'd never have caught me." Bevins's flight was the most remarkable feat of its kind I have ever heard of.

A man who could run barefooted in the snow through a prickly-pear patch was surely a "tough one." When I looked at the man's bleeding foot I really felt sorry for him.