CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.
THE END OF THE RACE.
Bart had the advantage of his enemies in this, that as long as he couldkeep well out of sight across the plains, he could go on as fast as hishorse could gallop, while they had to cautiously track his every step.Then, too, when he came to dry, rocky, or stony portions, he tookadvantage thereof, for he knew that his horse's hoof-prints would beindistinct, and sometimes disappear altogether. These portions of thetrail gave the Apaches endless difficulty, but they kept on tracking himstep by step, and one slip on the lad's part would have been fatal.
Fortune favoured him, though, and he pressed on, hitting the backwardroute pretty accurately, and recognising the various mountains and hillsthey had passed under the Beaver's guidance; and every stride taken bythe untiring little horse had its effect upon the lad, for it was onenearer to safety.
Still it was a terrible ride, for it was only after traversing somestony plain or patch of rock that he dared draw rein and take a fewhours' rest, while his steed fed and recruited its energies as well.
He would lie down merely meaning to rest, and then drop off fast asleep,to awake in an agony of dread, tighten his saddle-girths, and go onagain at speed, gazing fearfully behind him, expecting to see theApaches ready to spring upon him and end his career.
But they were still, though he knew it not, far behind. All the same,though, they kept up their untiring tracking of the trail day after daytill it was too dark to see, and the moment it was light enough todistinguish a footprint they were after him again.
Such a pertinacious quest could apparently have but one result--that ofthe quarry of these wolves being hunted down at last.
The days glided by, and Bart's store of provisions held out, for hecould hardly eat, only drink with avidity whenever he reached water.The terrible strain had made his face thin and haggard, his eyesbloodshot, and his hands trembled as he grasped the rein--not from fear,but from nervous excitement consequent upon the little sleep heobtained, his want of regular food, and the feeling of certainty that hewas being dogged by his untiring foes.
Sometimes to rest himself--a strange kind of rest, it may be said, andyet it did give him great relief--he would spring from Black Boy's back,and walk by his side as he toiled up some rough slope, talking to himand encouraging him with pats of the hand, when the willing littlecreature strove again with all its might on being mounted; in fact,instead of having to whip and spur, Bart found more occasion to hold inhis patient little steed.
And so the time went on, till it was as in a dream that Bart recognisedthe various halting-places they had stayed at in the journey out, whilethe distance seemed to have become indefinitely prolonged. All thewhile, too, there was that terrible nightmare-like dread haunting himthat the enemy were close behind, and scores of times some deer or otheranimal was magnified into a mounted Indian in full war-paint ready tobound upon his prey.
It was a terrible journey--terrible in its loneliness as well as in itsreal and imaginary dangers; for there was a good deal of fancied dreadtowards the latter part of the time, when Bart had reached a point wherethe Apaches gave up their chase, civilisation being too near at hand forthem to venture farther.
On two occasions, though, the lad was in deadly peril; once when,growing impatient, the Apaches, in hunting fashion, had made a cast ortwo to recover the trail they had lost, galloping on some miles, andtaking it up again pretty close to where Bart had been resting againsomewhat too long for safety, though far from being long enough torecoup the losses he had sustained.
The next time was under similar circumstances, the Apaches picking upthe sign of his having passed over the plain close beside a patch ofrising ground, where he had been tempted into shooting a prong-hornantelope, lighting a fire, and making a hearty meal, of which he stoodsadly in need.
The meal ended, a feeling of drowsiness came over the feaster, and thistime Bart did not yield to it, for he felt that he must place many moremiles behind him before it grew dark; so, rolling up the horse-hairlariat by which Black Boy had been tethered, once again he tightened thegirths, and was just giving his final look round before mounting,congratulating himself with the thought that he had enough good roastedvenison to last him for a couple more days, when his horse pricked hisears and uttered an impatient snort.
Just at the same moment there was the heavy thud, thud, thud, of horses'hoofs, and, without stopping to look, Bart swung himself up on hishorse's back and urged him forward with hand, heel, and voice.
The plain before him was as level as a meadow, not a stone being insight for miles, so that unless the cob should put his foot in someburrow, there was nothing to hinder his racing off and escaping by sheerspeed.
There was this advantage too: Black Boy had been having a good rest andfeed, while the pursuers had doubtless been making a long effort toovertake him.
The Apaches set up a furious yell as they caught sight of their prey,and urged on their horses, drawing so near before Bart could getanything like a good speed on, that they were not more than fifty yardsbehind, and thundering along as fast as they could urge their ponies.
This went on for half a mile, Bart feeling as if his heart was in hismouth, and that the chances of escape were all over; but somehow, inspite of the terrible peril he was in, he thought more about the Doctorand the fate of his expedition than he did of his own. For it seemed soterrible that his old friend and guardian--one who had behaved to himalmost as a father should be waiting there day after day expecting helpin vain, and perhaps thinking that his messenger had failed to do hisduty.
"No, he won't, nor Joses neither, think that of me," muttered Bart. "Iwish the Beaver were here to cheer one up a bit, as he did that othertime when these bloodthirsty demons were after us."
"How their ponies can go!" he panted, as he turned his head to gaze backat the fierce savages, who tore along with feathers and long hairstreaming behind them, as wild and rugged as the manes and tails oftheir ponies.
As they saw him look round, the Apaches uttered a tremendous yell,intended to intimidate him. It was just as he had begun to fancy thatBlack Boy was flagging, and that, though no faster, the Indians' ponieswere harder and more enduring; but, at the sound of that yell and thefollowing shouts of the insatiate demons who tore on in his wake, thelittle black cob gathered itself together, gave three or four tremendousbounds, stretched out racing fashion, and went away at a speed thatastonished his rider as much as it did the savages, who began to fire atthem now, bullet after bullet whizzing by as they continued theirheadlong flight.
The sound of the firing, too, had its effect on Black Boy, whose ear wasstill sore from the effect of the bullet that had passed through it, andhe tore away more furiously than ever, till, finding that the Indianswere losing ground, Bart eased up a little, but only to let the cob goagain, for he was fretting at being held in, and two or three times abullet came in pretty close proximity to their heads.
When night fell, the Apaches were on the other side of a long low ridge,down whose near slope the cob had come at a tremendous rate; and nowthat the Indians would not be able to follow him for some hours to comeeither by sight or trail, Bart altered his course, feeling sure that hecould save ground by going to the right instead of to the left of themountain-clump before him; and for the next few hours he breathed morefreely, though he dared not stop to rest.
The next day he saw nothing of his pursuers, and the next they werepursuers no longer, but Bart knew it not, flying still for his life,though he was now in the region that would be swept by the lancers ofthe Government.
He did not draw rein till the light-coloured houses of the town werewell within sight, and then he was too much excited to do more than easeup into a canter, for his nerves were all on the strain, his cheekssunken, and his eyes starting and dull from exhaustion.
But there was the town at last, looking indistinct, though, and misty.All seemed to be like a dream now, and the crowd of swarthy, raggedMexicans in their blankets, sombrer
os, and rugs were all part of hisdream, too, as with his last effort he thrust his hand into his breast,and took out the letter of which he was the bearer. Then it seemed tohim that, as he cantered through the crowd, with his cob throwing up thedust of the plaza, it was some one else who waved a letter over hishead, shouting, "The governor! the governor!" to the swarthy staringmob; and, lastly, that it was somebody else who, worn out withexhaustion now that the task was done, felt as if everything had gonefrom him, every nerve and fibre had become relaxed, and fell heavilyfrom the cob he rode into the dust.
The Silver Canyon: A Tale of the Western Plains Page 39
