The cliff, up which the young prairie merchant and his guide, after
their series of hairbreadth escapes, have succeeded in climbing, is the
scarped edge of a spur of the famous Llano Estacado, or "Staked Plain,"
and it is into this sterile tract they are now fleeing.
Neither have any definite knowledge of the country before them, or the
direction they ought to take. Their only thought is to put space
between themselves and the scene of their disaster--enough to secure
them against being seen by the eye of any Indian coming after.
A glance is sufficient to satisfy them that only by distance can they
obtain concealment. Far as the eye can reach the surface appears a
perfect level, without shrub or tree. There is not cover enough to give
hiding-place to a hare. Although now in full run, and with no
appearance of being pursued, they are far from being confident of
escaping. They are under an apprehension that some of the savages have
ascended to the upper plain, and are still on it, searching for them.
If so, these may be encountered at any moment, returning disappointed
from the pursuit.
The fugitives draw some consolation from the knowledge that the pursuers
could not have got their horses up the cliff; and, if there is to be
another chapter to the chase, it will be on foot--a contest of
pedestrian speed. In a trial of this kind Walt Wilder, at least, has
nothing to fear. The Colossus, with his long strides, would be almost a
match for the giant with the seven-leagued boots.
Their only uneasiness is that the savages may have gone out upon the
track they are themselves taking, and, appearing in their front, may
head them off, and so intercept their retreat. As there is yet no
savage in sight--no sign either of man or animal--their confidence
increases; and, after making a mile or so across the plain, they no
longer look ahead, but backward.
At short intervals the great brown beard of the guide sweeps his left
shoulder, as he casts anxious glances behind him. They are all the more
anxious on observing--which he now does--that his fellow-fugitive flags
in his pace, and shows signs of giving out.
With a quick comprehension, and without any questions asked, Wilder
understands the reason. In the smoke-cloud that covered their retreat
from the corralled waggons--afterwards in the sombre shadow of the
chine, and the obscurity of the cave, he had not observed what now, in
the bright glare of the sunlight, is too plainly apparent--that the
nether garments of his comrade are saturated with blood.
Hamersley has scarce noticed it himself, and his attention is now called
to it, less from perceiving any acute pain than that he begins to feel
faint and feeble. Blood is oozing through the breast of his shirt,
running down the legs of his trousers, and on into his boots. And the
fountain from which it proceeds is fast disclosing itself by an aching
pain in his side, which increases as he strides on.
A moment's pause to examine it. When the vest and shirt are opened it
is seen that a bullet has passed through his left side, causing only a
flesh wound, but cutting an artery in its course. Scratched and torn in
several other places, for the time equally painful, he had not yet
perceived this more serious injury.
It is not mortal, nor likely to prove so. The guide and hunter, like
most of his calling, is a rough practical surgeon; and after giving the
wound a hurried examination, pronounces it "only a scratch," then urges
his companion onward.
Again starting, they proceed at the same quick pace; but before they
have made another mile the wounded man feels his weakness sensibly
overcoming him. Then the rapid run is succeeded by a slow dog-trot,
soon decreasing to a walk, at length ending in a dead stop.
"I can go no farther, Walt; not if all the devils of hell were at my
heels. I've done my best. If they come after you keep on, and leave
me."
"Niver, Frank Hamersley, niver! Walt Wilder ain't the man to sep'rate
from a kumrade, and leave him in a fix that way. If ye must pull up, so
do this child. An' I see ye must; thar's no behelp for it."
"I cannot go a step farther."
"Enuf! But don't let's stan' to be seen miles off. Squat's the word.
Down on yer belly, like a toad under a harrer. Thar's jest a
resemblance o' kiver, hyar 'mong these tussocks o' buffler-grass; an'
this child ain't the most inconspicerousest objeck on the plain. Let's
squat on our breast-ribs, an' lay close as pancakes."
Whilst speaking he throws himself to the earth, flat on his face.
Hamersley, already tottering, drops down by his side; as he does so,
leaving the plain, as far as the eye can reach, without salient object
to intercept the vision--any more than might be seen on the surface of a
sleeping ocean.
It is in favour of the fugitives that the day has now well declined.
But they do not remain long in their recumbent position before the sun,
sinking behind the western horizon, gives them an opportunity of once
more getting upon their feet.
They do so, glad to escape from a posture whose restraint is exceedingly
irksome. They have suffered from the hot atmosphere rising like caloric
from the parched plain. But now that the sun had gone down, a cool
breeze begins to play over its surface, fanning them to fresh energy.
Besides, the night closing over them--the moon not yet up--has removed
the necessity for keeping any longer in concealment, and they proceed
onward without fear. Hamersley feels as if fresh blood had been infused
into his veins; and he is ready to spring to his feet at the same time
as his comrade.
"Frank! d'ye think ye kin go a little furrer now?" is the interrogatory
put by the hunter.
"Yes, Walt; miles further," is the response. "I feel as if I could walk
across the grandest spread of prairie."
"Good!" ejaculates the guide. "I'm glad to hear you talk that way. If
we kin but git a wheen o' miles atween us an' them yelpin' savages, we
may hev a chance o' salvation yit. The wust o' the thing air, that we
don't know which way to go. It's a toss up 'tween 'em. If we turn back
torst the Canadyen, we may meet 'em agin, an' right in the teeth.
Westart lies the settlement o' the Del Nort; but we mout come on the
same Injuns by goin' that direckshun. I'm not sartin they're Tenawas.
Southart this Staked Plain hain't no endin' till ye git down to the
Grand River below its big bend, an' that ain't to be thort o'. By
strikin' east, a little southart, we mout reach the head sources o' the
Loozyany Red; an' oncest on a stream o' runnin' water, this child kin
generally navigate down it, provided he hev a rifle, powder, an' a
bullet or two in his pouch. Thank the Almighty Lord, we've stuck to
your gun through the thick an' the thin o't. Ef we hedn't we mout jest
as well lie down agin' an' make a die at oncest."
"Go which way you please, Walt; you know best. I am ready to follow
you; and I think I shall be able."
"Wal, at anyhow, we'd best be movin' off from hyar. If ye can't go a
great ways under kiver o' the night, I reck'n we kin put enough o'
parairia atween us an' these Injuns to make sure agin thar spyin' us in
the mornin'. So let's start south-eastart, an' try for the sources o'
the Red. Thur's that ole beauty o' the North Star that's been my friend
an' guide many's the good time. Thar it is, makin' the handle o' the
Plough, or the Great Bar, as I've heern that colleckshin o' stars
freekwently called. We've only to keep it on our left, a leetle torst
the back o' the shoulder, an' then we're boun' to bring out on some o'
the head-forks o' the Red--if we kin only last long enough to reach 'em.
Darn it! thar's no danger; an' anyhow, thar's no help for't but try.
Come along!"
So speaking, the guide started forward--not in full stride, but timing
his pace to suit the feeble steps of his disabled comrade.