Near the head of the Platte, more than a hundred miles beyond Fort
Laramie, had encamped, one midsummer night, a party of hunters and
trappers, among whom were Fred Wilder and Old Blaze.
The party numbered only a dozen men, and as their force was so small,
they had taken special care to guard against attack or accident.
Notwithstanding their precautions, they discovered, in the morning,
that four of their best horses were missing, and a council was held to
consider the matter.
As there were no signs of Indians to be seen, they came to the
conclusion that the animals had got loose, and had taken the back track
on the trail by which the party had come. As most of the men were in a
hurry to reach their destination, they proposed to push forward without
regarding the loss; but Wilder, to whom three of the horses belonged,
was loth to lose them, and he declared that he would go in search of
them, if he had to go alone. Old Blaze declared that he should not go
alone, and volunteered to accompany him. It was settled, therefore,
that the two men should go in search of the animals, and should join
the others at the Devil’s Gap, at which point they proposed to stop for
a while.
Silverspur and Old Blaze set out in one direction, while their
companions went in another. They followed the trail back to their last
encampment, where they saw signs of the missing animals, but discovered
that they had gone on without stopping. As it was useless to pursue
them any further on foot, the two men encamped for the night among the
trees that lined the banks of a creek.
In the morning they started to rejoin their comrades, and an accident
befell them at the outset of the journey. Silverspur shot a deer
before they proceeded far, and the animal fell to the ground, mortally
wounded. Old Blaze, drawing his knife, ran to finish the deer, but
stumbled and fell as he was running. As bad luck would have it, he
fell upon his knife, which entered his thigh, making a deep and painful
wound.
The gash was bound up immediately, and the hunter, after resting a
little while, was able to walk, though his progress was slow and
difficult.
Soon after this second start, Silverspur, happening to look around,
discovered a large body of Indians, less than a quarter of a mile in
their rear.
“What shall we do now?” he asked, as he pointed them out to his
companion.
“What you kin do is plain enough,” replied Blaze. “Yer legs are good,
and you kin git away. As fur me, I can’t run, and will hev to take my
chances.”
“Do you think I would leave you? You know me better than that, old man.
I think we can both save ourselves. The Indians have seen us, no doubt,
but have not found us out. They probably mistake us for some of their
own people, as they are in no hurry to get to us. If you will pull up a
little, until we get to the creek yonder, you can hide under the bank.
The Indians will follow me, and you can get clear when they have gone
by.”
“Are you right sure, boy, that your legs are good?” asked the hunter,
looking hard at his companion.
“I can trust them, and you need have no fear for me. The Indians are
afoot, as you see, and I am sure that no runner among them can catch me
before I reach the Devil’s Gap.”
“All right, then. Yer legs will hev to save yer own skelp and mine.”
“Come on. I belive they are getting suspicions of us.”
Old Blaze quickened his pace, and they soon reached the creek, where he
concealed himself in the dense foliage under the bank.
Silverspur crossed the creek, and gained an elevation beyond it, from
which he looked back at the Indians. They had become suspicious of the
strangers, and runners from the main body were hastening toward the
creek. As he started to run, the advanced Indians gave a yell, and
pushed forward in pursuit.
The young man had not reckoned without his host, when he said that he
could trust his legs. It was not their length that he confided in, but
their activity and endurance. More than once they had served him well
in grievous peril, and he had no doubt that they would carry him safely
to his friends.
He halted but once--to see that the Indians did not stop at the creek
to search for Old Blaze--before he had run a good two-mile stretch, and
had put a considerable distance between himself and his pursuers. After
that, he stopped whenever he found himself on a hill, to see whether
they were gaining on him, half hoping that they might abandon the race.
The hope was a vain one, as he well knew that Indian runners, when once
started on a chase, will fall dead in their tracks, rather than give up
the pursuit.
It was a long distance to the Devil’s Gap, and Fred Wilder had not got
his prairie legs on. He did not think of this when he proposed to draw
the pursuit from his friend. If he had thought of it, it would not have
prevented him from making the proposition. For a long time he had been
leading the enervating life of a city, and his bodily powers were by no
means such as they were when he left the mountains and the plains.
He was forced to confess to himself, when he stopped to look back, that
he paused to gain breath, as much as to observe the progress of his
pursuers. He was forced, also, to the unwelcome admission that they
were gaining on him, slowly but surely.
He was growing weary--of that there could be no doubt. The summer day
was hot; the sun shone scorchingly; there was no water on the route,
and his throat was parched with thirst. Still his persevering and
indefatigable pursuers gained on him, and their yells sounded horribly
in his ears.
But it was past noon. He had run more than five hours, and he consoled
himself with the thought that he must be near the rendezvous. He was
willing that the Indians should gain on him a little, as they would
soon be seen by his friends, and the tables would be turned on them so
nicely!
It was with a sigh of relief, with a feeling of great joy, that he came
within the shadow of the hills that marked the Gap. A few more steps,
and he would be safe.
The few steps were taken, and he reached the encampment, only to find
it deserted!
Silverspur was astounded by this appalling discovery. His head swam,
and his body reeled. At that moment he felt so weak that exertion
seemed impossible. His friends had gone up the river, and he could not
guess how far. They might be a full day’s journey in advance of him.
How could he hope to overtake them, and to escape his fleet-footed
pursuers.
In his despair, he thought only of satisfying his thirst. He was
determined to drink, if he should die the next moment. He staggered
down to the river, knelt at the brink, and drank as if he expected
never to have another draught.
When he arose, the Indians were fearfully near him; but his strength
and courage had returned. They had come upon the trail of the white
men, and, fearing an ambuscade, had halted to reconnoiter. But for this
circumstance, Silverspur would have been killed where he drank. As it
was, he was in great danger, and their bullets and arrows whistled
unpleasantly close to him as he mounted the bank. But he was rested
and refreshed, his nerves were braced for a grand effort, and the
consciousness of his peril gave him new energy and endurance.
He ran for his scalp, knowing that his possession of that precious part
of his person depended on his speed. The Indians raised a yell as he
shot ahead of them; but it was a feeble cry, compared to their previous
shouts, and showed that their throats were dry and thirsty. They must
stop to drink, and this thought gave him new hope. He resolved to
make a long burst, hoping to get so far ahead of them that they would
abandon the pursuit.
He was again mistaken. The savages stopped to quench their thirst;
but they were resolved to overtake the fugitive or die on the trail.
When he looked back, they were far in his rear, but were pressing
determinedly on.
The young man knew that he had a long and hard race before him; but he
believed that Providence would be propitious to a man that sacrificed
himself for his friend. His hope was even brighter than it had been
before he reached the rendezvous, and he felt that his will would
supply him with strength.
On he pressed, through the long hours of the midsummer afternoon,
with his red enemies straining after him. As he occasionally looked
behind, he had the satisfaction of seeing that their line was gradually
lengthened, and that one by one they dropped off, until but five
continued the pursuit. But those five were gaining on him, and he felt
that his strength was failing again.
Should he stop, and give battle to those five? He seriously considered
the question, as that desperate chance seemed to be his only resource.
No; the odds against him were too great, and he was so weak that he
could hardly “count” in a hand-to-hand struggle.
“Let them screech,” he said, as their exultant yells told him how
confident they were of overtaking him. “They had better save their
breath for running, or they may not catch me yet.”
He toiled on, and until the sinking sun showed him that the day was
near its close and until the number of his pursuers were diminished to
three. His strength was nearly exhausted, his feet were so sore that
every step was painful, and his legs had swollen until he seemed to
drag them as a load. Thirst had overpowered him again; his throat was
dry and hot; his breath came in difficult gasps; his head was dizzy and
a mist floated before his eyes.
He could run no more. The end of the race had come and the only
question was, how it should be ended. There were but three Indians
now, and his rifle, which he had carried through the weary chase until
its weight was no longer supportable, would do good work if his eye
remained true. He might bring down one of his adversaries, and might
load in time to shoot another, before they could close in upon him, and
then he would have but one to deal with. It was his last chance, and he
could do nothing but adopt it.
As he looked ahead, to find a suitable place to make a stand, he saw
smoke rising from an elevation before him. The next moment he saw men
on horseback. He pressed his hand before his eyes, as if to drive away
the mist that blinded him, and he saw that they were white men.
They had perceived him, and they came galloping toward him. They were
seen by the Indians, who turned and fled. The pursuers became the
pursued, and small chance would they have in another race.
Silverspur saw nothing more. The mist closed in upon him thickly. His
rifle fell upon the ground, and he dropped heavily beside it.