"The camp is attacked," said Yseulte, not even pausing to brush off the
dust which had gathered upon her clothing during her passage into and
out of the "dug-out."
"I'm afraid so."
Both stood eagerly listening. Again came the long, crackling roll, this
time more dropping and desultory, also more distinct than when they
first heard it underground.
"How will it end?" she asked.
Their glances met. In the grave and serious expression of her
companion's face Yseulte read the worst.
"We must hope for the best. Meanwhile, my first care must be for your
safety, so we must leave this spot at once. See what comes of allowing
oneself to get careless. As a matter of fact, we are off the Sioux
range, and reckoning on that we haven't been scouting so carefully as we
ought."
"When can we return to the camp?"
"Not a moment before dark," he replied, wondering if she knew that the
chances were a hundred to one against there being any camp to return to.
For to his experienced mind the situation was patent. That sudden and
heavy fusillade meant a numerous war-party. It also meant a surprise.
Further, and worst of all, he realised that at the time it took place
the waggon train would have pulled out, in which event the Indians would
not allow it time to corral. Again, the firing had completely ceased,
which meant that one of two things had happened. Either the assailants
had been beaten off; which was hardly likely within such a short space
of time. Or they had carried the whole outfit at the first surprise;
and this he decided was almost certain. But there was no need to break
the terrible news to his companion.
"Can we not wait here?" said the latter. "We could retire into the
`dug-out' if they discovered us."
"How very near your ideal of fun has come to being realised!" was the
reply, with a shadow of a smile. "No, we should stand no chance."
It did not escape Yseulte that, previous to starting, her escort gave a
quick, careful look to her saddlery and girths, pausing to tighten the
latter, and her heart sank with a chill and direful foreboding.
"You see, it's this way," continued Vipan. "It is almost certain that
the war-party is a Sioux one, probably our old friends Crow-Scalper and
Mountain Cat. This is the extreme western edge of the Sioux range,
consequently when the reds quit the scrimmage they are bound to travel
north or north-east. So we must put as much space as we can between us
and them in the contrary direction. For the same reason, if your
friends have whipped them--"
He paused abruptly, but it was too late. She turned to him, her eyes
dilating with horror.
"_If_! Oh, tell me the truth. You think they have no chance?"
"One can but hope for the best." She turned her face away, and the
tears fell thick and fast. She could hardly realise it. Her dear
friends, under whose protection she had travelled many and many a day,
in whose companionship she had been initiated into the delights of this
wild new land, and also its perils, now massacred; even at that moment,
perhaps, falling beneath the merciless blows of these bloodthirsty
savages. She could hardly realise it. Her mind felt numb. Even the
sense of her own peril failed to come home to her.
But her companion realised it to the full. This was no time to think of
anything but how to neglect no possible means of effecting her safety,
yet he could not banish the thrill of triumph which the thought inspired
in him that her fate, her very life, was absolutely in his hands.
Suddenly she turned to him. The black drop of suspicion was corroding
her mind.
"Why did you bring me away from them all this morning?" she said,
speaking quickly and in a hard tone. "Did you _know_ what was going to
happen?"
The adventurer's face went ashy white. Even she could entertain such
suspicions!
"You forget, Miss Santorex. My tried and trusted friend of years is in
that outfit. Should I be likely to sell his scalp, even if I sold those
of _your_ friends?"
There was a savour of contempt in the cold incisiveness of his tone that
went to her heart. What is baser than the sin of ingratitude? Did she
not owe her life--and more than her life--to this man already, and now
to be flinging her pitiable and unworthy suspicions at him! Would she
ever recover his good opinion again?
"Forgive me!" she cried. "Forgive me! I hardly knew what I was
saying." And she burst into tears. Even yet she would hardly believe
but that her fellow-travellers would succeed in holding their own.
Young though the day was, the torrid rays of the sun blazed fiercely
down upon the great plains. Some distance in front rose a rugged ridge,
almost precipitous. The only passage through this for many miles was a
narrow canon--a mere cleft. Beyond lay miles and miles of
heavily-timbered ravines, and for this welcome shelter Vipan was making.
This plan he explained to his companion.
"Look! What are those?" she cried, growing suddenly eager. "Indians?
No. Wild horses? I didn't know there were any wild horses in these
parts."
Save for a scattered line of brush here and there, the great plains
until they should reach the defile above referred to were treeless, and
presented a succession of gentle undulations. Nearly a mile distant,
seeming to emerge from one of these belts of brush, careering along in a
straggling, irregular line converging obliquely with the path of the two
riders, came a large herd of ponies. It almost looked as if the latter
were bent on joining them.
Yseulte did not see the change in her companion's face, so intent was
she on watching the ponies.
"Get your horse into a gallop at once, but keep him well in hand," he
said. But before she could turn to him, startled, alarmed by the
significance of his tone, the sudden and appalling metamorphosis which
came over the scene nearly caused her to fall unnerved from her saddle.
By magic, upon the back of each riderless steed there started an upright
figure, and, splitting the stillness of the morning air with its loud
fiendish quaver, the hideous war-whoop went up from the throats of half
a hundred painted and feathered warriors, who, brandishing their weapons
and keeping up one long, unbroken, and exultant yell, skimmed over the
plain, sure of their prey.
"Keep quite cool, and don't look back," he said. "We've got to reach
that canon before they do--and we shall. The war-pony that can overhaul
old Satanta when he's in average working order has yet to be built."
So far good, so far true. But the same would not precisely hold good of
Yseulte's palfrey, which steed, though showy, was not much above the
average in pace or staying power.
The race was literally one for life, and the pace was terrific. To the
girl it seemed like some fearful dream. Sky and earth, the great
mountain rampart reared up in front, all blended together in rocking
confusion during that mad race. The yells of the pursuing barbarians
sounded horribly nearer, and the pursued could almost hear the whistle
of their uncouth trappings as they streamed out on the breeze.
Vipan, reaching over, lashed her horse with a thong which he detached
from his saddle. The animal sprang forward, but the spurt was only
momentary. And the war-ponies were horribly fresh.
Nearer, nearer. The great rock walls dominating the entrance to the
pass loomed up large and distinct. Again he glanced back at the
pursuers. Yes, they were gaining. It was more a race than a pursuit--
the goal that grim rock-bound pass. Even should the fugitives reach it,
what then? Their chances would still be of the slenderest.
Ah, the horror of it! Yseulte, white to the lips, kept her seat by an
effort of will, her heart melting with deadly fear. Her companion,
fully determined she should never fall alive into the hands of the
savages, held his pistol ready, first for them, then for her, his heart
burning with bitter curses on his own blind and besotted negligence. It
was too late now. They were to founder in sight of land. Ah, the
bitterness of it!
Bang!
The whiz of a bullet, simultaneously with a puff of blue smoke--this
time in front. Vipan ground his teeth. There was no escape, they were
between two fires.
But the regular thunder of the pursuing hoofs seemed to undergo a
change. What did it mean?
Bang!
Then a glance over his shoulder told him that as the second ball came
whizzing into their midst, the painted warriors had swerved, throwing
themselves on the further side of their horses.
Only for a moment, though. Realising that this new enemy represented
but a single unit, they hurled themselves forward with redoubled ardour,
yelling hideously.
"The gulch, pardner! Streak for the gulch!" sung out a stentorian
voice; and sending another bullet among the on-rushing redskins, this
time with effect, Smokestack Bill kicked up his horse, which had been
lying prone, and in half a minute was flying side by side with his
friend.
Short though this check had been, yet it had given them a momentary
advantage. But, now, as they neared the mouth of the pass, it became
clear to these two experienced Indian fighters that one of them must
give his life for the rest.
"Take the young lady on," said the scout. "You're in it together, and
must get out of it together. Reckon I'll stand them back long enough
for you to strike cover."
Here was a temptation. Vipan knew well that it was so. A short ten
minutes would save her--would save them both. His friend could hold the
bloodthirsty savages in check for more than that. A struggle raged
within him--a bitter struggle--but he conquered.
"No, no, old pard. I'm the man to stay," he answered, slipping from his
saddle, for they were now at the entrance of the pass. "Good-bye. Take
her in safe."
It was no time for talking. The pursuers, rendered tenfold more daring
by the prospect of the most coveted prize of all--a white woman--were
almost on their heels, the rocks re-echoing their exultant yells.
Yseulte's horse, maddened with terror and stimulated by a shower of
blows from the scout, bounded forward at a tearing gallop.
"Wait, wait! We cannot leave him like this! We must turn back!" she
cried, breathless, but unable to control her steed, which was stampeding
as though all the Sioux in the North-West were setting fire to its tail.
"Help me! Help me to turn back!" she cried, in a perfect frenzy of
despair. "We have deserted him--left him to die!"
Left alone, the bold adventurer felt no longer any hope, but in its
stead he was conscious of a wild elation. His death would purchase
_her_ safety, and death was nothing in itself, but every moment gained
was of paramount importance. Carefully he drew a bead on the charging
warriors and fired. A pony fell. Another rapid shot. This time a
human victim. This stopped their headlong rush, and still wheeling in
circles they hesitated to come nearer.
He glanced around. Overhead, the slopes, almost precipitous, offered
many a possible hiding-place. He might even escape--but he was not
there for that. He was there to hold back the enemy--till night, if
necessary.
The day wore on. The Sioux, who had drawn off to a distance, seemed in
no mood to renew the attack. They were resting their ponies.
Suddenly he saw a score of them leap on horseback again and ride rapidly
away. What could this mean?
A shadow fell between him and the light. There was a hurtling sound--a
crash--and before he could turn or look up, the whole world was blotted
out in a stunning, roaring, heaving sea of space. Then faintness,
oblivion, death.