The next instant the trapper dashed through the water, reaching the shore before the savage could reload.

To his disappointment and chagrin, the Indian was gone.
Tim, however, was not to be baffled in this manner, and dashed on as impetuously as before.

He was so close that he could hear the fugitive as he fled, but the nature of the ground prevented rapid progress upon the part of either, and it was impossible to tell for a time who it was that was gaining.
"There's got to be an end to this race _some time_," muttered Tim, "or I'll chase you up the north pole.

You've stole my dinner, and tried to steal my topknot, and now you shall have it or I shall have yours." For some time this race (which in many respects resembled that of Teddy and the strange hunter) continued, until the trapper found it was himself that was really losing ground, and he sullenly came down to a walk again.

Still, he held to the trail with the unremitting perseverance of the bloodhound, confident that, sooner or later, he must come up with the fugitive.
All at once, something upon the ground caught his eye.