With the first lightening of dawn, the fugitive realised that it behoved
him to exercise tenfold wariness. Save one brief halt to rest his
steed, he had ridden the night through, and now he intended to lie
hidden in some snug retreat until darkness again should cover his flight
beneath its friendly folds. A shallow stream flowed close at hand, now
losing itself in the timber, now gurgling along a grassy bottom, to
emerge a few hundred yards further down. Into the water Vipan now
guided his steed, and riding down stream, emerged a mile or so further
on. This manoeuvre, executed with the object of hiding his trail, he
had performed already twice that night.
The morning dawned but slowly; dark and cold, for a thick mist had
settled down on the land. And now it seemed to Vipan that the ground
was becoming less precipitous. Could he be getting clear of the
mountains already? Suddenly the murmur of guttural voices struck upon
his ear, and strangely enough they sounded ahead of him.
Softly he checked his horse. Then to his unbounded amazement the
subdued murmur arose again. This time _it was behind him_.
A puff of air drove a space through the mist, and now Vipan's heart
stood still. On either side of him, all around, gigantic in the filmy
wrack which swept over them in thickening or decreasing folds, loomed
shadowy horsemen. Their deep-toned conversation, their plumed heads and
painted faces, were only too familiar to this man who was flying there
for his life. _He was riding in the very midst of a war-party_.
Their strength he could not estimate. Ghostly forms appearing and
disappearing as the mist thickened or partially dispersed, no clue could
he obtain as to their numbers. One even called out to him a remark. He
answered with a laconic grunt, and in his heart fervently blessed the
foresight of his deliverer which had invested him with the eagle-crested
head-dress. The savages evidently took him for one of their party.
Fervently, too, did he bless the welcome fog and its kindly aid, for the
fraud could not have lived a moment in broad daylight.
Gradually, imperceptibly, he checked his steed. Any moment the fog
might lift. He must back out of this perilous escort as imperceptibly
as he had entered it. But, just as he reckoned himself clear, a fresh
group of figures would start up on his rear, and canter forward in the
wake of those who had gone before. These ceased, and by the time the
fog began fairly to roll back beneath the dispelling power of the rising
sun, Vipan, to his inexpressible relief, found himself alone. Then
spying a confused heap of rocks and bushes high up on the slope of a
hill he made for it. As a hiding-place it was perfect. Entering its
welcome shelter, he secured his tired steed in such wise that the animal
could crop the green herbage growing in the cool shadow of the rocks.
Then he lay down and fell fast asleep.
When at length he awoke it was with a shiver of cold. The sun was not
an hour from the western horizon. He had slept the whole day.
Cautiously he peered forth. His hiding-place, being at a considerable
elevation, afforded a wide view of the surrounding country. The blue
line of the Black Hills cleft the sky to the south-eastward, and he
could make out the granite cone of the towering Inyan Kara. His course
had so far been an accurate one.
Suddenly a moving object caught his eye. Was the land absolutely
bristling with enemies? Advancing along his trail far down in the
bottom came a file of mounted figures. Though nearly three miles off,
there was no mistaking them or their object. Then he chuckled
sardonically. The trail of the war-party, under whose escort he had so
unwillingly travelled for ever so brief a space, would obliterate his
own a hundred times over.
Nearer and nearer they drew, riding at an easy canter. He made out
forty-one Indians in war-costume. He watched them with a sneer and a
chuckle.
Suddenly, when nearly abreast of his position, the leader halted, gazing
intently at the ground. The band clustered round him, then scattered,
as if searching for more trail. Then a smothered curse escaped the lips
of the watcher. In obedience to a rapid signal, the whole band had
diverged from the trail of the war-party, and was heading straight for
his place of concealment. It was all up with him. They had lighted
upon his trail. It was time to give them the slip.
He sent one more glance at the party. Strung out in single file, the
warriors were riding along his trail, like a pack of hounds with their
noses to the ground. In their leader he recognised his implacable and
untiring foe, War Wolf.
"All right," he muttered between his teeth, as he twisted the lariat
rope into the horse's mouth. "All right, my friend. You're bound for
the Happy Hunting-Grounds this time. We'll get there together."
His horse, fresh and rested, bore him bravely as he dashed forth,
leaving the hill and the covert between himself and his pursuers. Well
he knew what would happen. The Indians would not ride straight up to
the bushes. They would halt and cast round the hill to see if his trail
led away again. This would give him a start.
The face of the country on this side was a series of rolling slopes
freely dotted with clumps of straggling timber. Some distance ahead he
noted a long dark line of forest. Night was at hand; could he reach
this in time he might yet hope to escape.
Then a long, pealing whoop went up. The Sioux had discovered him, and
with exultant shouts each warrior lashed his pony into the utmost speed.
For half an hour the furious chase continued. Vipan, glancing over his
shoulder, became aware that his pursuers were slowly gaining on him.
On--on. The forest belt would soon be reached, and meanwhile the
dusking shadows were lengthening around.
He gained the first straggling patch of scrub. A few hundred yards and
he would be within the welcome refuge, when his horse put a foot on the
crusted surface of a mud-hole, turned a somersault, and his rider came
whizzing to the earth.
Vipan arose. Throughout the horror of the shock his self-possession did
not desert him, for he retained firm hold of the lariat rope. He was on
his feet again, active as a cat, though stiff and bruised, but his steed
stood shaking with alarm, using its right foreleg limpingly.
A yell of exultation went up from the pursuers. Half-a-dozen warriors,
better mounted than the rest, were some distance ahead. So easy a
capture would be that of the unarmed fugitive that they had not troubled
to hold a weapon in readiness. Now they began to whirl their lassos
ready for a throw.
Vipan, perfectly cool, crouched behind a bush, his revolver pointed. On
they came, War Wolf leading, a grin of triumph wreathing his fierce
features. A hundred yards--then fifty. A ringing report--a jet of
flame in the glooming twilight. War Wolf threw up his arms and lurched
heavily forward upon his horse's neck. The terrified animal, snorting
and rearing, dashed away at a tangent, dragging his rider, who had
somehow become entangled in the caparisonings.
And what a howl of rage and consternation rent the air! They had not
bargained for this, for they believed the fugitive to be unarmed.
Panic-stricken for the moment, they halted, then some of them dashed off
to the succour of their leader. But they need not have done so. The
bullet had sped true. The young partisan had shouted his last
war-whoop.
Profiting by this temporary check, the hunted man had again sprung on
the back of his horse. Lame or not, the animal must carry him further
yet. On--on. The forest belt was gained. He plunged beneath its
shadows, only to find it was mere straggling timber--not thick enough
for hiding purposes. The frosty air cut his face and the leaves
crackled crisply under his horse's hoofs. He drew his knife and pricked
the poor brute furiously in the hinder quarters. The fierce yells of
the savages drawing nearer and nearer told only too plainly that they
had no intention of relinquishing the pursuit, and the horse was
beginning to go dead lame.
"Cau--aak!"
He glanced involuntarily upward. A huge raven disturbed on its roost
flapped away in alarm. But another sight met his eye. Extending
horizontally from two sturdy limbs of a Cottonwood tree, cleaving the
wintry sky, was a long dark object. Vipan recognised one of those
platforms on which the Indians deposit their dead--like Mohammed's
coffin, midway between earth and heaven.
His mind was made up in a flash. Checking his horse he dismounted, and
tearing a bunch of thorns from a bush, proceeded deliberately to insert
them beneath the poor animal's tail. Then, as the horse galloped off in
a perfect frenzy of pain and terror, he slipped up the tree and gained
the burial platform, literally flattening himself against its ghastly
burden. It was a hideous alternative.
Scarcely had he gained this gruesome refuge than the pursuers passed
beneath. They were barely fifteen feet below him as he lay flattened
there, not even daring to breathe as the savages swept by, guided by the
frenzied gallop which, seeming to have gained redoubled speed, they
could hear still ahead of them. It was a desperate expedient, but it
had answered so far.
"Cau--aak! Cau--aak!"
Like an evil spirit let loose beneath the frosty heavens came the black
swoop of the raven he had disturbed, and the hunted man saw it with a
cold shiver. He dared not even turn his head. The warriors might
return at any moment from their fool's errand, and then even a breath
might seal his fate. A strong shudder of disgust ran through his frame.
The hideous croak of the ill-omened bird brought back vividly that
other scene--the two grinning blood-stained skulls lying there in the
dark forest by Burntwood Creek, and the startling challenge of their
would-be avenger. Involuntarily he turned his head, and a revulsion of
horror caused him to shrink back in spite of himself, and nearly to fall
from his precarious resting-place. For within six inches of his face
his glance lighted upon a fearful sight. A human countenance scowled
upon him--but such a face. From the blackened and mummified skin drawn
tightly over the protruding bones, the glazed eyes seemed to glare anew
with menace and hate towards the violator of their resting-place.
Shadowy yet distinct in the light of the new moon this horrible
countenance, peering as it were from the fantastic cerements of
barbarous sepulture, was enough to unhinge the stoutest nerves. A
grisly skeleton-claw raised in mid-air, as though about to grapple with
the impious intruder, completed the horror, while overhead, like the
fierce spirit of the departed warrior yet hovering around its decaying
tenement, the grim raven flapped in circles, emitting its gruesome
croak.
"Pooh!" said the fugitive to himself, making a strong effort to overcome
his not unnatural horror. "Pooh! While the country's swarming with
live redskins hunting for my scalp, am I going to be scared by one dead
one? Not much--not much!"
An hour wore on--then two. Wolves howled dismally over the midnight
waste, and still that grisly countenance glared menacingly in the
moonlight--and still they lay side by side, the dust of the
half-forgotten dead, and the living, breathing, vigorous frame--welded
together in that weird partnership--its object the saving of a life.
Thus they lay, side by side--the dead warrior preserving the life of the
hereditary enemy of his race.