At his feet the snow was still trampled; he could see where the man had kneeled to fire; where he had run down the opposite side of the hill.

There had been only one--a white man from the imprint--and he had fled south, vanishing in the smother.
It required an effort for the Sergeant to recover, to realize his true position, and the meaning of this mysterious attack.

He was no longer numb with cold or staggering from weakness.

The excitement had sent the hot blood pulsing through his veins; had brought back to his heart the fighting instinct.

Every desire urged him forward, clamoring for revenge, but the aroused sense of a plainsman held him motionless, staring about, listening for any sound.