Young Munson made a sudden bound outward, and, just as he did so, a mass
of rock weighing fully a dozen tons, fell upon the precise spot where
he had stood, missing him so narrowly that the blast of wind, or rather
concussion of the air, was plainly felt. The boulder broke into several
pieces, its momentum being so terrific that the ground for several feet
around was jarred as if by an earthquake.
The lad was overcome for a moment or two, for he realized how narrow his
escape was from a terrible and instantaneous death.
“That was a little closer than I ever want to come again,” he exclaimed.
“It seems to me that a person is always likely to get killed, no matter
where he is or what he is doing. I don't suppose that anybody threw that
down at me,” he continued, in a half-doubting voice, as he stepped a few
paces back and again peered into the gloom.
If it had been during the day-time, he might have suspected that
some scamp had managed to pry the mass loose, and to send it crashing
downward straight for his head. But as the case stood, such a thing
could not have taken place.
Fred continued his flight until nearly midnight, by which time his
fatigue became so great that he began to hunt a place in which to spend
the remainder of the night. He had not yet seen any wild animals, and
was hopeful that he would suffer no disturbance from them. The single
charge of his rifle was to precious to be thrown away upon any such game
as that.
The lad was in the very act of leaving the ravine, when his step was
arrested by a sound too distinct to be mistaken. It was not imagination
this time, and he paused to identify it. The sound was faint and of
the nature of a jarring or murmur. He suspected that it was caused by
horses' hoofs, and he listened but a few minutes when he became certain
that such was the fact.
“There must be a big lot of them,” he thought, as he listened to the
sound growing plainer and plainer every minute. “I wonder if Lone Wolf
and his men have not done what they started to do and are going round
home again?”
Judging from the clamping hoofs, such might have been the case. At all
events, there was every reason for believing that a party of horsemen
were in the ravine and that they were headed in his direction.
Fred made up his mind to wait where he was until they passed by. He
had no fear of being seen, when the opportunity for hiding was all that
could be desired, and, lying flat upon his face, he awaited the result.
Nearer and nearer came the tramp, tramp, the noise of hoofs mingling
in a dull thud that sounded oddly in the stillness of the night to the
watching and listening lad.
“Here they come,” he muttered, before he saw them; but the words were
hardly out of his mouth when a shadowy figure came into view, instantly
followed by a score of others, all mingling and blending in one
indistinguishable mass.
The forms of animals and riders were plainly discernible, but they came
in too promiscuous fashion to be counted, and they were gone almost as
soon as they were seen. Fred was confident that thirty warriors galloped
by him in the stillness of the night.
“I believe it was Lone Wolf and some of his men,” he muttered, as he
clambered down from his place among the rocks. Having been thoroughly
awakened by what he had seen, he determined to walk an hour or more
longer, for he felt that the best time for him to journey was during the
protecting darkness of night.
“There ain't anybody to make me get up early,” he reasoned, “and when I
go to sleep I can stick to it as long as I want to. It seems to me that
if I walk all I can tonight, and keep at it the most of tomorrow,
I ought to be somewhere near the place where we came in among these
mountains. Then a day or two's tramping over the back trail will take me
pretty nearly to New Boston--that is, if nobody gobbles me up. I've got
a rough road before me, but God has guided me thus far, and I'll trust
him clean through. I've had some wonderful escapes to tell about--”
He was too wide awake and too much on the alert to forget precisely
where he was, or to fail to take in whatever should occur of an alarming
nature. That which now startled him and suddenly cut short his musings
was the sound of a horse's hoofs, close behind him.
Fred had been duped by his own fears and imaginings so many times
that he could not be served so again, and, as he was not apprehending
anything of the kind at that moment, there was no possibility of escape
from the reality of the sound. He halted and turned his head like
lightning, grasping his rifle in his nervous, determined way as he
peered back into the gloom, whispering to himself:
“That must be Lone Wolf or some of the warriors coming back to look for
me.”
This was rather vague theorizing, however. Look and stare as much as he
chose, he could detect nothing that resembled man or animal. He shrank
to one side and waited several minutes, in the hope that the thing would
explain itself. But it did not, and, after waiting some time, he resumed
his journey along the ravine, keeping close to the shadow on the right
side, and using eyes and ears to guard against the insidious approach of
any kind of foe.
Sometimes, under such circumstances, when a sound has very nearly or
quite died out In the stillness, there seems to come a peculiar eddy or
turn of wind, or that which causes the sound, passes for an instant at a
point which is so situated as to impel the waves of air directly to
the ear of the listener. Fred did not exactly understand how this thing
could happen, but he had known of something of the kind, and he was
gradually bringing himself to explain the thing in that fashion, when
his theory was upset by such a sudden, violent rattling of hoofs, so
close behind him, that he leaped to one side, fearful of being trampled
upon.
“That's a pretty way to come upon a fellow!” he gasped, whirling
about with the purpose of shooting the red-skin for his startling
introduction.
But neither rider nor horseman was visible.
The watcher could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses.
It seemed to him that the Apache, as he believed him to be, must have
turned abruptly aside, into some opening in the side of the ravine, but
he could not remember having seen any place that would admit of such
strategy. When he came to reflect upon it, it seemed impossible.
“Well, that beats everything,” he said, with a perplexed sigh. “That
sounded so close that I expected to be run over before I could get out
of the way, and now he's gone.”
He waited some minutes, and, hearing and seeing nothing, once more
resumed his stealthy way along the gorge, a new, shivering fear
gradually creeping over him, as it does over anyone who suspects himself
in the presence of the unexplainable and unnatural.
“I wonder whether they have ghosts in this part of the world?” he said
to himself. “I used to hear the men talk of such things, but father said
there was nothing in them, and so I didn't believe them--but I don't
know what father would say or think if he was in my place.”
There was the strong counter-belief, also--the conviction that most
likely there was a reality about the thing--which kept Fred on the _qui
vive_. He was determined, if possible, to prevent a repetition of the
startling surprise of a few minutes before. He scrutinized the side of
the ravine as he walked along, on the lookout for any opening or crevice
which would permit a man and a horse to find shelter. It did not seem
possible that any retreat that would shelter them could escape the eyes
of the lad.
“I haven't seen any such place yet, so, if the Indian is trying any such
trick, he can't do it here without my seeing him, and if I do--Heaven
save me!”
He sprang to one side, again pressing himself back against the rock, as
though trying to flatten his body there in order to escape the trampling
hoofs. At the same time he cocked his rifle, with the purpose of giving
the finishing touch to the Apache who had alarmed him once too often in
this fashion.