Guiding their course by the stars the fugitives continue on--no longer
going in a run, nor even in a very rapid walk. Despite the resolution
with which he endeavours to nerve himself, the wounded man is still too
weak to make much progress, and he advances but laggingly. His
companion does not urge him to quicken his pace. The experienced
prairie man knows it will be better to go slowly than get broken down by
straining forward too eagerly. There is no sign or sound of Indian,
either behind or before them. The stillness of the desert is around
them--its silence only interrupted by the "whip-whip" of the
night-hawk's wings, and at intervals its soft note answering to the
shriller cry of the kid-deer plover that rises screaming before their
feet. These, with the constant skirr of the ground-crickets and the
prolonged whine of the coyote, are the only sounds that salute them as
they glide on--none of which are of a kind to cause alarm.
There appears no great reason for making haste now. They have all the
night before them, and, ere daylight can discover them, they will be
sure to find some place of concealment.
The ground is favourable to pedestrianism in the darkness. The surface,
hard-baked by the sun, is level as a set flagstone, and in most places
so smooth that a carriage could run upon it as on the drive of a park.
Well for them it is so. Had the path been a rugged one the wounded man
would not go far before giving out. Even as it is, the toil soon begins
to tell on his wasted strength. His veins are almost emptied of blood.
Nor do they proceed a very great distance before again coming to a halt;
though far enough to feel sure that, standing erect, they cannot be
descried by any one who may have ascended the cliff at the place where
they took departure from it.
But they have also reached that which offers them a chance of
concealment--in short, a forest. It is a forest not discernible at more
than a mile's distance, for the trees that compose it are "shin oaks,"
the tallest rising to the height of only eighteen inches above the
surface of the ground. Eighteen inches is enough to conceal the body of
a man lying in a prostrate attitude; and as the Lilliputian trees grow
thick as jimson weeds, the cover will be a secure one. Unless the
pursuers should stray so close as to tread upon them, there will be no
danger of their being seen. Further reflection has by this time
satisfied them that the Indians are not upon the upper plain. It is not
likely, after the pains they had taken to smoke them in the cave and
afterwards shut them up. Besides, the distribution of the spoils would
be an attraction sure to draw them back to the waggons, and speedily.
Becoming satisfied that there is no longer a likelihood of their being
pursued across the plain, Wilder proposes that they again make stop;
this time to obtain sleep, which in their anxiety during their previous
spell of rest they did not attempt. He makes the proposal out of
consideration for his comrade, who for some time, as he can see, has
evidently been hard pressed to keep up with him.
"We kin lie by till sun-up," says Walt; "an' then, if we see any sign o'
pursoot, kin stay hyar till the sun goes down agin. These shin oaks
will gie us kiver enuf. Squatted, there'll be no chance o' thar
diskiverin' us, unless they stumble right atop o' us." His companion is
not in the mood to make objection, and the two lay themselves along the
earth. The miniature forest not only gives them the protection of a
screen but a soft bed, as the tiny trunks and leaf-laden branches become
pressed down beneath their bodies.
They remain awake only long enough to give Hamersley's wound such
dressing as the circumstances permit, and then both sink into slumber.
With the young prairie merchant it is neither deep nor profound. Horrid
visions float before his rapt senses--scenes of red carnage--causing him
ever and anon to awake with a start, once or twice with a cry that wakes
his companion.
Otherwise Walt Wilder would have slept as soundly as if reposing on the
couch of a log cabin a thousand miles removed from any scene of danger.
It is no new thing for him to go to sleep with the yell of savages
sounding in his ears. For a period of over twenty years he has daily,
as nightly, stretched his huge form along mountain slope or level
prairie, and often with far more danger of having his "hair raised"
before rising erect again. For ten years he belonged to the "Texas
Rangers"--that strange organisation that has existed ever since Stephen
Austin first planted his colony in the land of the "Lone Star." If on
this night the ex-Ranger is more than usually restless, it is from
anxiety about his comrade, coupled with the state of his nervous system,
stirred to feverish excitement by the terrible conflict through which
they have just passed. Notwithstanding all, he slumbers in long spells,
at times snoring like an alligator.
At no time does the ex-Ranger stand in need of much sleep, even after
the most protracted toil. Six hours is his usual daily or nocturnal
dose; and as the grey dawn begins to glimmer over the tops of the shin
oaks, he springs to his feet, shakes the dew from his shoulders like a
startled stag, and then stoops down to examine the condition of his
wounded comrade.
"Don't ye git up yit, Frank," he says. "We mustn't start till we hev a
clar view all roun', an' be sure there's neery redskin in sight. Then
we kin take the sun a leetle on our left side, an' make tracks to the
south-eastart. How is't wi' ye?"
"I feel weak as water. Still I fancy I can travel a little farther."
"Wall, we'll go slow. Ef there's none o' the skunks arter us, we kin
take our time. Durn me! I'm still a wonderin' what Injuns they war;
I'm a'most sartint thar the Tenawa Kimanch--a band o' the Buffler-eaters
an' the wust lot on all the parairia. Many's the fight we rangers used
to hev wi' 'em, and many's the one o' 'em this child hev rubbed out. Ef
I only hed my rifle hyar--durn the luck hevin' to desart that gun--I ked
show you nine nicks on her timmer as stan' for nine Tenawa Kimanch.
Ef't be them, we've got to keep well to the southart. Thar range lays
most in the Canadyen, or round the head o' Big Wichitu, an' they mout
cross a corner o' the Staked Plain on thar way home. Tharfer we must go
southart a good bit, and try for the north fork o' the Brazos. Ef we
meet Indian thar, they'd be Southern Kimanch--not nigh sech feeroshus
varmints as them. Do you know, Frank, I've been hevin' a dream 'bout
them Injuns as attacked us?"
"A dream! So have I. It is not strange for either of us to dream of
them. What was yours, Walt?"
"Kewrus enuf mine war, though it warn't all a dreem. I reck'n I war
more 'n half awake when I tuk to thinkin' about 'em, an' 'twar somethin'
I seed durin' the skrimmage. Didn't you observe nothin' queery?"
"Rather say, nothing that was not that way. It was all queer enough,
and terrible, too."
"That this child will admit wi' full freedom. But I've f't redskin
afore in all sorts an' shapes, yet niver seed redskin sech as them."
"In what did they differ from other savages? I saw nothing different."
"But I did; leastways, I suspeck I did. Didn't you spy 'mong the lot
two or three that had ha'r on thar faces?"
"Yes; I noticed that. I thought nothing of it. It's common among the
Comanches and other tribes of the Mexican territory, many of whom are of
mixed breed--from the captive Mexican women they have among them."
"The ha'r I seed didn't look like it grew on the face o' a mixed blood."
"But there are pure white men among them--outlaws who have run away from
civilisation and turned renegades--as also captives they have taken, who
become Indianised, as the Mexicans call it. Doubtless it may have been
some of these we saw."
"Wall, you may be right, Frank. Sartint thar war one I seed wi' a beard
'most as big as my own--only it war black. His hide war black, too, or
nigh to it; but ef that skunk wan't white un'erneath a coatin' o'
charcoal an' vermilion then Walt Wilder don't know a Kristyun from a
heethun. I ain't no use spek'latin' on't now. White, black,
yella-belly, or red, they've put us afoot on the parairia, an' kim
darned nigh wipin' us out althegither. We've got a fair chance o' goin'
un'er yet, eyther from thirst or the famishment o' empty stomaks. I'm
hungry enuf already to eat a coyat. Thar's a heavy row afore us, Frank,
an' we must strengthen our hearts to hoein' o' it. Wall, the sun's up;
an' as thar don't appear to be any obstrukshun, I reck'n we'd best be
makin' tracks."
Hamersley slowly and somewhat reluctantly rises to his feet. He still
feels in poor condition for travelling. But to stay there is to die;
and bracing himself to the effort, he steps out side by side with his
colossal companion.