The dust came faster; they were pursued.
That was a weird race.

There was no running, no galloping; only a steady, relentless trot that jarred poor Boland to the bone.

After an hour, during which the pursuers gained steadily, Pete called a halt.

They took the packs from the led animals and turned them loose, to go back to Fishhook Mountain; they refilled their canteens from the kegs and pressed on.

The pursuit had gained during the brief delay; plainly to be seen now, queer little bobbing black figures against the north.
They rode on, a little faster now.