A WILD RACE.
Meanwhile, where was the missing maiden, Clara Calhoun? Let us glance
back and learn.
The information gleaned by Major Calhoun from the emigrants was correct,
so far as it went. Clara had been riding, as usual, and when she had
learned the spot chosen for the encampment, which she could already
locate by the neighboring grove of trees, she resolved to enjoy a little
gallop ere night fell, and by this means she would also avoid much of
the disagreeable noise and confusion attendant upon halting.
So she bore abruptly to the right, and with loosened rein dashed merrily
away, the proud mustang tossing his head gladly, at this unusual
relaxation. But Clara’s little ride was destined to be carried out upon
a scale of far greater importance than she had anticipated, and ere it
was ended, she was fated to undergo a season of peculiar trial.
From before her horse’s feet there sprung up a rabbit—one of that
overgrown breed popularly known as “jack-rabbits,” which, if not often
palmed off on greenhorns as full grown mules, as Westerners frequently
assert, are sufficiently large to astonish those used only to the more
diminutive species common to “the States”—and dashed away over the short
grass, clearing fully half a score yards at each jump.
Clara’s eyes sparkled, and bending forward she spoke to her horse in a
low tone, gently touching his flanks with her switch. The game creature
bounded forward with a wild snort, while the maiden laughed long and
loudly at this unique race.
The jack-rabbit, like his more diminutive brother of the States,
invariably resorts to one ruse, in order to escape an enemy. It will
flee for a considerable distance in a direct line, but then will
“double,” and return by a _detour_ to near the starting-point.
And this one was not an exception to the general rule. For fully a mile
it leaped ahead, with astonishing speed, leaving Clara far behind, and
then doubled.
But Clara did not detect this last move, and urged her horse on at full
speed. Then, however, having lost sight of the animal, she drew rein and
turned as if to retrace her steps.
She glanced around, but the point toward which she believed was the
camping-ground was bare and like that upon either hand. Not a tree was
to be seen. The plain was nearly level, but she was now in a slight
depression, that was from right to left, like the trough between two
huge waves.
“Come,” she said, us she twitched the reins and turned the mustang’s
head toward the crest, “we must hurry, or we’ll be too late for supper.
It’s almost sundown.”
But then, as she paused upon the ridge, a wild cry broke from her lips.
A startling sight met her gaze.
Before her, at not more than one-half mile distance, were a number of
horsemen, coming toward her at full speed. And even her untrained eyes
could tell that they were Indians; their trappings and peculiar manner
of riding, outlined upon the red sky beyond, as they crossed a slight
swell, told her that.
“My God! I am lost!” gasped Clara, for she believed that these forms
were directly between her and her friends, unknowing how the chase after
the rabbit had caused her to deviate from a true line.
But then as a shrill cry came to her ears, borne over the intervening
space by the light breeze, she wrenched her horse’s head around and
dashed down the slope at a break-neck pace. Only one thought possessed
her now: to increase the distance between her and these dusky fiends, of
whose daring she had heard so many frightful incidents.
And now the race was begun in sober earnest. It was no longer one of
mere sport; freedom, perhaps even life depended upon her retaining the
vantage-ground thus fortunately gained.
The truth may be told in a few words. These savages were but part of the
band that had pursued old Tom Maxwell, who, after discovering the
riderless horse, had suspected the ruse, and were searching for the
emigrant train. They had caught sight of Clara, just after she set off
in pursuit of the rabbit, and a band of them immediately spurred forth
to effect her capture.
There was one circumstance in Clara’s favor, though she did not think of
it then. The sun had already sunk behind the western horizon, and in a
short time more, the shades of night would hide her from her enemies,
provided she could elude their clutches for so long.
But then she knew not whither she was going. Ignorant of what lay before
her, in a strange and wild region, what hope was there for her?
Even supposing she should escape these enemies, how could she subsist in
that wide prairie, destitute of food, or even the means of procuring
any? She would only starve to death, die by slow degrees!
And thus she sped on, carefully assisting her noble horse, as he labored
on. Fortunate indeed it was for her that he was a mustang, prairie born
and bred; tough and hardy, though not remarkably fleet at a short
stretch.
But one of this race will easily tire out and even kill one of the
larger breed from the States, and yet, after a short rest and mouthful
of short grass, be as well and fresh as ever. For hours they can be
urged on at full speed, without giving way beneath the strain.
And so, though beneath the saddle well-nigh that entire day, Clara’s
horse sped on without flinching, and the maiden saw with joy that she
was nearly, if not quite, maintaining her vantage ground.
But still, of what avail? How would it all end? She was fleeing further
with each moment, from her friends, and in trying to avoid one death,
seemed but rushing upon another, scarcely less terrible.
For fully an hour the race swept on, without any great change in the
relative positions. The shades of night were now upon the prairie, and
the moon not yet having risen, all around was dark and gloomy.
Clara could see that she was nearing high ground, but as she looked to
see if she could not skirt it, the dim outlines of a long range met her
eye, extending for miles upon either hand. Though fearful of losing
ground, there was nothing for it but to dare the steep ascent.
In a few minutes more, the fugitive was at the base of a rugged hill,
and then as the shrill yells of exultation came up from the pursuers
behind her, Clara urged her laboring horse up the steep ascent.
It was hard work for the already overtasked animal, but it nobly
responded to the call, and although more than once stumbling, it
struggled on until the extreme crest was gained. But then as it dashed
down the steep declivity, the mustang’s hoof rested upon a loose stone,
and it pitched forward, head-first, flinging its rider violently to the
ground. Then arising, it still kept on, snorting wildly.
Clara felt a shock, then that she was falling—falling down what seemed
an interminable depth, and then, with a frightful shock her downward
course seemed to be checked. This; and then followed a blank.
A blank, so far as any definite sensation was concerned, and yet not
entirely one, either. For it seemed—faint and indistinct, as in a
dream—as though she was shortly afterward surrounded by phantom figures,
and a far-away hum as of human voices in consultation, was also in the
vision, if vision it was.
The figures seemed to raise her from the ground and then convey her
gently through the air for what seemed an almost interminable length of
time. Then she was placed upon the cool ground beside a murmuring
rivulet, when cool water was sprinkled over her face, while warm, soft
hands chafed her own.
Then with a feeble cry she started up and gazed wildly around her. The
phantom forms were now more substantial—the voices sounded more clearly
upon her ear, and she knew that the visionary dream had been a reality.
Then she uttered a feeble cry and sunk back, with a convulsive shudder.
Before her she beheld a hideous face, dusky, it seemed, with nodding
plumes surmounting it, that she knew could only belong to an Indian!
She felt that she was lost—that her pursuers had overtaken her, and that
now she was helpless in the power of the merciless fiends!