Dick had written his note, and placed it where Bassett would be certain
to see it. Then he found his horse and led him for the first half mile
or so of level ground before the trail began to descend. He mounted
there, for he knew the animal could find its way in the darkness where
he could not.

He felt no weariness and no hunger, although he had neither slept nor
eaten for thirty-odd hours, and as contrasted with the night before his
head was clear. He was able to start a train of thought and to follow it
through consecutively for the first time in hours. Thought, however, was
easier than realization, and to add to his perplexity, he struggled
to place Bassett and failed entirely. He remained a mysterious and
incomprehensible figure, beginning and ending with the trail.

Then he had an odd thought, that brought him up standing. He had only
Bassett's word for the story. Perhaps Bassett was lying to him, or mad.
He rode on after a moment, considering that, but there was something,
not in Bassett's circumstantial narrative but in himself, that refused
to accept that loophole of escape. He could not have told what it was.

And, with his increasing clarity, he began to make out the case for
Bassett and against himself; the unfamiliar clothing he wore, the pad
with the name of Livingstone on it and the sign Rx, the other contents
of his pockets.