He loaded his revolver as he ran, slackening his pace as he covered greater distance, for he knew that in the storm his trail could be followed scarcely faster than a walk.
He gave no thought to Jean Croisset, bound hand and foot in the little cabin on the mountain.

Even as he had clung to the window for that last moment it had occurred to him that it would be folly to return to the Frenchman.

Meleese had promised to come to him, and he believed her, and for that reason Jean was no longer of use to him.

Alone he would lose himself in that wilderness, alone work his way into the South, trusting to his revolver for food, and to his compass and the matches in his pocket for life.

There would be no sledge-trail for his enemies to follow, no treachery to fear.