The Terrible Pursuit
Dick knew enough to bend low down on the neck of the flying
mustang, and he was untouched, although he heard the bullets
whistling about him. The neigh of the pony had betrayed him, but
he was aided by his quickness and the friendly darkness, and he
felt a surge of exultation that he could not control, boy that he
was. The Sioux, jumping upon their ponies, sent forth a savage
war whoop that the desolate prairie returned in moaning echoes,
and Dick could not refrain from a reply. He uttered one shout,
swung his rifle defiantly over his head, then bending down again,
urged his pony to increased speed.
Dick heard the hoofs of his pursuers thundering behind him, and
more rifle shots came, but they ceased quickly. He knew that the
Sioux would not fire again soon, because of the distance and the
uncertain darkness. It was his object to increase that distance,
trusting that the darkness would continue free from moonlight.
He took one swift look backward and saw the Sioux, a dozen or
more, following steadily after. He knew that they would hang on
as long as any chance of capturing him remained, and he resolved
to make use of the next swell that he crossed. He would swerve
when he passed the crest, and while it was yet between him and
his pursuers, perhaps he could find some friendly covert that
would hide him. Meanwhile he clung tightly to his rifle,
something that one always needed in this wild and dangerous
region.
He crossed a swell, but there was no friendly increase of the
darkness and he was afraid to swerve, knowing that the Sioux
would thereby gain upon him, since he would make himself the
curve of the bow, while they remained the string.
In fact, the hasty glance back showed that the Sioux had gained,
and Dick felt tremors. He was tempted for a moment to fire upon
his pursuers, but it would certainly cause a loss of speed, and
he did not believe that he could hit anything under such
circumstances. No, he would save his bullets for a last stand,
if they ran him to earth.
The Sioux raised their war whoop again and fired three or four
shots. Dick felt a slight jarring movement run through his pony,
and then the animal swerved. He was afraid that he had trodden
in a prairie-dog hole or perhaps a little gully, but in an
instant or two he was running steadily again, and Dick forgot the
incident in the excitement of the flight.
He was in constant fear lest the coming out of the moon should
lighten up the prairie and make him a good target for the Sioux
bullets, but he noted instead, and with great joy, that it was
growing darker. Heavy clouds drifted across the sky, and a cold
wind arose and began to whistle out of the northwest. It was a
friendly black robe that was settling down over the earth. It
had never before seemed to him that thick night could be so
welcome.
Dick's pony rose again on a swell higher than the others, and was
poised there for the fraction of a second, a dark silhouette
against the darker sky. Several of the Sioux fired. Dick felt
once more that momentary jar of his horse's mechanism, but it
disappeared quickly and his hopes rose, because he saw that the
darkness lay thickly between this swell and the next, and he
believed that he now could lose his pursuers.
He urged his horse vigorously. He had made no mistake when he
chose this pony as strong and true. The response was instant and
emphatic. He flew down the slope, but instead of ascending the
next swell he turned at an angle and went down the depression
that lay between them. There the darkness was thickest, and the
burst of speed by the pony was so great that the shapes of his
pursuers became vague and then were lost. Nevertheless, he heard
the thudding of their hoofs and knew that they could also hear
the beat of his. That would guide them for a while yet. He
thought he might turn again and cross the next swell, thus
throwing them entirely off his track, but he was afraid that he
would be cast into relief again when he reached the crest, and so
continued down the depression.
He heard shouts behind him, and it seemed to him that they were
not now the shouts of triumph, but the shouts of chagrin.
Clearly, he was gaining because after the cries ceased, the sound
of hoof beats came but faintly. He urged his horse to the last
ounce of his speed and soon the sound of the pursuing hoofs
ceased entirely.
The depression ended and he was on the flat plain. It was still
cloudy, with no moon, but his eyes were used enough to the dark
to tell him that the appearance of the country had changed. It
now lay before him almost as smooth as the surface of a table,
and never relaxing the swift gallop, he turned at another angle.
He was confident now that the Sioux could not overtake or find
him. A lone object in the vast darkness, there was not a chance
in a hundred for them to blunder upon him. But the farther away
the better, and he went on for an hour. He would not have
stopped then, but the good pony suddenly began to quiver, and
then halted so abruptly that Dick, rifle and all, shot over his
shoulder. He felt a stunning blow, a beautiful set of stars
flashed before his eyes, and he was gone, for the time, to
another land.
When Dick awoke he felt very cold and his head ached. He was
lying flat upon his back, and, with involuntary motion, he put
his hand to his head. He felt a bump there and the hand came
back damp and stained. He could see that the fingers were
red--there was light enough for that ominous sight, although
the night had no yet passed.
Then the flight, the danger, and his fall all came back in a rush
to Dick. He leaped to his feet, and the act gave him pain, but
not enough to show that any bone was broken. His rifle, the
plainsman's staff and defense, lay at his feet. He quickly
picked it up and found that it, too, was unbroken. In fact, it
was not bent in the slightest, and here his luck had stood him
well. But ten feet away lay a horse, the pony that had been a
good friend to him in need.
Dick walked over to the pony. It was dead and cold. It must
have been dead two to three hours at least, and he had lain that
long unconscious. There was a bullet hole in its side and Dick
understood now the cause of those two shivers, like the momentary
stopping of a clock's mechanism. The gallant horse had galloped
on until he was stopped only by death. Dick felt sadness and
pity.
"I hope you've gone to the horse heaven," he murmured.
Then he turned to thoughts of his own position. Alone and afoot
upon the prairie, with hostile and mounted Sioux somewhere about,
he was still in bad case. He longed now for his mountains, the
lost valley, the warm cabin, and his brother.
It was quite dark and a wind, sharp with cold, was blowing. It
came over vast wastes, and as it swept across the swells kept up
a bitter moaning sound. Dick shivered and fastened his deerskin
tunic a little tighter. He looked up at the sky. Not a star was
there, and sullen black clouds rolled very near to the earth.
The cold had a raw damp in it, and Dick feared those clouds.
Had it been day he could have seen his mountains, and he would
have made for them at once, but now his eyes did not reach a
hundred yards, and that bitter, moaning wind told him nothing
save that he must fight hard against many things if he would keep
the life that was in him. He had lost all idea of direction.
North and south, east and west were the same to him, but one must
go even if one went wrong.
He tried all his limbs again and found that they were sound. The
wound on his head had ceased to bleed and the ache was easier.
He put his rifle on his shoulder, waved, almost unconsciously, a
farewell to the horse, as one leaves the grave of a friend, and
walked swiftly away, in what course he knew not.
He felt much better with motion. The blood began to circulate
more warmly, and hope sprang up. If only that bitter, moaning
wind would cease. It was inexpressibly weird and dismal. It
seemed to Dick a song of desolation, it seemed to tell him at
times that it was not worth while to try, that, struggle as he
would, his doom was only waiting.
Dick looked up. The black clouds had sunk lower and they must
open before long. If only day were near at hand, then he might
choose the right course. Hark! Did he not hear hoof beats? He
paused in doubt, and then lay down with his ear to the earth.
Then he distinctly heard the sound, the regular tread of a horse,
urged forward in a straight course, and he knew that it could be
made only by the Sioux. But the sound indicated only one horse,
or not more than two or three at the most.
Dick's courage sprang up. Here was a real danger and not the
mysterious chill that the moaning of the wind brought to him. If
the Sioux had found him, they had divided, and it was only a few
of their number that he would have to face. He hugged his
repeating rifle. It was a fine weapon, and just then he was in
love with it. There was no ferocity in Dick's nature, but the
Sioux were seeking the life that he wished to keep.
He rose from the earth and walked slowly on in his original
course. He had no doubt that the Sioux, guided by some demon
instinct, would overtake him. He looked around for a good place
of defense, but saw none. Just the same low swells, just the
same bare earth, and not even a gully like that in which he had
lain while the hunt of the buffalo wheeled about him.
He heard the hoof beats distinctly now, and he became quite sure
that they were made by only a single horseman. His own senses
had become preternaturally acute, and, with the conviction that
he was followed by but one, came a rush of shame. Why should he,
strong and armed, seek to evade a lone pursuer? He stopped,
holding his rifle ready, and waited, a vague, shadowy figure,
black on the black prairie.
Dick saw the phantom horseman rise on a swell, the faint figure
of an Indian and his pony, and there was no other. He was glad
now that he had waited. The horse, trained for such work as
this, gave the Sioux warrior a great advantage, but he would
fight it out with him.
Dick sank down on one knee in order to offer a smaller target,
and thrust his rifle forward for an instant shot. But the Sioux
had stopped and was looking intently at the boy. For fully two
minutes neither he nor his horse moved, and Dick almost began to
believe that he was the victim of an illusion, the creation of
the desolate plains, the night, the floating black vapors, his
tense nerves, and heated imagination. He was tempted to try a
shot to see if it were real, but the distance and the darkness
were too great. He strengthened his will and remained crouched
and still, his finger ready for the trigger of his rifle.
The Sioux and his horse moved at last, but they did not come
forward; they rode slowly toward the right, curving in a circle
about the kneeling boy, but coming no nearer. They were still
vague and indistinct, but they seemed blended into one, and the
supernatural aspect of the misty form of horse and rider
increased. The horse trod lightly now, and Dick no longer heard
the sound of footsteps, only the bitter moaning of the wind over
the vast dark spaces.
The rider rode silently on his circle about the boy, and Dick
turned slowly with him, always facing the eyes that faced him.
He could dimly make out the shape of a rifle at the saddlebow,
but the Sioux did not raise it, he merely rode on in that
ceaseless treadmill tramp, and Dick wondered what he meant to
do. Was he waiting for the others to come up?
Time passed and there was no sign of a second horseman. The
single warrior still rode around him, and Dick still turned with
him. He might be coming nearer in his ceaseless curves, but Dick
could not tell. Although he was the hub of the circle, he began
to have a dizzy sensation, as if the world were swimming about
him. He became benumbed, as if his head were that of a whirling
dervish.
Dick became quite sure now that the warrior and his horse were
unreal, a creation of the vapors and the mists, and that he
himself was dreaming. He saw, too, at last that they were coming
nearer, and he felt horror, as if something demonic were about to
seize him and drag him down. He crouched so long that he felt
pain in his knees, and all things were becoming a blur before his
eyes. Yet there had not been a sound but that of the bitter,
moaning wind.
There was a flash, a shot, the sigh of a bullet rushing past, and
Dick came out of his dream. The Sioux had raised the rifle from
his saddlebow and fired. But he had been too soon. The shifting
and deceptive quality of the darkness caused him to miss. Dick
promptly raised his own rifle and fired in return. He also
missed, but a second bullet from the warrior cut a lock from his
temple.
Dick was now alert in every nerve. He had not wanted the life of
this savage, but the savage wanted his; it seemed also that
everything was in favor of the savage getting it, but his own
spirit rose to meet the emergency; he, too, became the hunter.
He sank a little lower and saved his fire until the warrior
galloped nearer. Then he sent a bullet so close that he saw one
of the long eagle feathers drop from the hair of the warrior.
The sight gave him a savage exultation that he would have
believed a few hours before impossible to him. The next bullet
might not merely clip a feather!
The Sioux, contrary to the custom of the Indian, did not utter a
sound, nor did Dick say a word. The combat, save for the reports
of the rifle shots, went on in absolute silence. It lasted a full
ten minutes, when the Indian urged his horse to a gallop,
threw himself behind the body and began firing under the neck. A
bullet struck Dick in the left arm and wounded him slightly, but
it did not take any of his strength and spirit.
Dick sought in vain for a sight of the face of his fleeting foe.
He could catch only a glimpse of long, trailing hair beneath the
horse's mane, and then would come the flash of a rifle shot.
Another bullet clipped his side, but only cut the skin.
Nevertheless, it stung, and while it stung the body it stung
Dick's wits also into keener action. He knew that the Sioux
warrior was steadily coming closer and closer in his deadly
circle, and in time one of his bullets must strike a vital spot,
despite the clouds and darkness.
Dick steadied himself, calming every nerve and muscle. Then he
lay down on his stomach on the plain, resting slightly on his
elbow, and took careful aim at the flying pony. He felt some
regret as he looked down the sights. This horse might be as
faithful and true as the one that had carried him to temporary
safety, but he must do the deed. He marked the brown patch of
hair that lay over the heart and pulled the trigger.
Dick's aim was true--the vapors and clouds had not disturbed
it--and when the rifle flashed, the pony bounded into the
and fell dead. But the agile Sioux leaped clear and darted away.
Dick marked his brown body, and then was his opportunity to send
a mortal bullet, but a feeling of which he was almost ashamed
held his hand. His foe was running, and he was no longer
hunted. The feeling lasted but a moment, and when it passed, the
Sioux was out of range. A moment later and his misty foe had
become a part of the solid darkness.
Dick stood upright once more. He had been the victor in a combat
that still had for him all the elements of the ghostly. He had
triumphed, but just in time. His nerves were relaxed and
unstrung, and his hands were damp. He carefully reloaded all the
empty chambers of his repeating rifle, and without looking at the
falling horse, which he felt had suffered for the wickedness of
another, strode away again over the plain, abandoning the rifle
of the fallen Sioux as a useless burden.
It took Dick sometime after his fight with the phantom horseman
to come back to real earth. Then he noticed that both the clouds
and the dampness had increased, and presently something cold and
wet settled upon his face. It was a flake of snow, and a troop
came at its heels, gentle but insistent, chilling his hands and
gradually whitening the earth, until it was a gleaming floor
under a pall of darkness.
Dick was in dismay. Here was a foe that he could not fight with
rifle balls. He knew that the heavy clouds would continue to
pour forth snow, and the day, which he thought was not far away,
would disclose as little as the night. The white pall would hide
the mountains as well as the black pall had done, and he might be
going farther and father from his valley.
He felt that he had been released from one danger and then
another, only to encounter a third. It seemed to him, in his
minute of despair, that Fate had resolved to defeat all his
efforts, but, the minute over, he renewed his courage and trudged
bravely on, he knew not whither. It was fortunate for him that
he wore a pair of the heavy shoes saved from the wagon, and put
on for just such a journey as this. The wet from the snow would
have soon soaked though his moccasins, but, as his thick deerskin
leggings fitted well over his shoes, he kept dry, and that was a
comfort.
The snow came down without wind and fuss, but more heavily than
ever, persistent, unceasing, and sure of victory. It was not
particularly cold, and the walking kept up a warm and pleasant
circulation in Dick's veins. But he knew that he must not stop.
Whether he was going on in a straight line he had no way to
determine. He had often heard that men, lost on the plains, soon
begin to travel in a circle, and he watched awhile for his own
tracks; but if they were there, they were covered up by snow too
soon for him to see, and, after all, what did it matter?
He saw after a while a pallid yellowish light showing dimly
through the snow, and he knew that it was the sunrise. But it
illuminated nothing. The white gloom began to replace the black
one. It was soon full day, but the snow was so thick that he
could not see more than two or three hundred yards in any
direction. He longed now for shelter, some kind of hollow, or
perhaps a lone tree. The incessant fall of the snow upon his
head and its incessant clogging under his feet were tiring him,
but he only trod a plain, naked save for its blanket of snow.
Dick had been careful to keep his rifle dry, putting the barrel
of it under his long deerskin coat. Once as he shifted it, he
felt a lump over his chest, and for an instant or two did not
know what caused it. Then he remember the history and geography
of the United States. He laughed with grim humor.
"I am lost to history," he murmured, "and geography will not tell
me where I am."
He crossed a swell--he knew them now more by feeling than by
sight--and before beginning the slight assent of the next one he
stopped to eat. He had been enough of a frontiersman, before
starting upon such a trip, to store jerked buffalo in the skin
knapsack that he had saved for himself. The jerked meat offered
the largest possible amount of sustenance in the smallest
possible space, and Dick ate eagerly. Then he felt a great
renewal of courage and strength. He also drank of the snow
water, that is, he dissolved the snow in his mouth, but he did
not like it much.
He stood there for a while resting, and resolved only to walk
enough to keep himself warm. Certainly, nothing was to be gained
by exhausting himself and the snow which was now a foot deep
showed no signs of abating. The white gloom hung all about him
and he could not see the sky overhead.
Just as he took this resolution, Dick saw a shadow in the
circling white. The shadow was like that of a man, but before he
could see farther there was a little flash of red, a sharp,
stinging report, and a bullet clipped the skin of his cheek,
burning like fire. Dick was startled, and for full cause--but
he recognized the Sioux warrior who had fought him on horseback.
He had stared too long at that man and at a time too deadly not
to know that head and face and the set of his figure. He had
followed Dick through all the hours and falling snow, bent upon
taking his life. A second shot, quickly following the first,
showed that he meant to miss no chance.
The second bullet, like the first, just grazed Dick, and mild of
temper though he habitually was, he was instantly seized with the
fiercest rage. He could not understand such hatred, such
ferocity, such an eagerness to take human life. And this was the
man whom he had spared, whom he could easily have slain when he
was running! The Sioux was raising his rifle for a third bullet,
when Dick shot him through the chest. There was no doubt about
his aim now. It was not disturbed by the whitish mist and the
falling snow.
The Sioux fell full length, without noise and without struggle,
and his gun flew from his hand. His body lay half buried in the
snow, some of the long eagle feathers in his hair thrusting up
like the wing of a slain bird. Dick looked at him with
shuddering horror. All the anger was gone from him now, and it
is true that in his heart he felt pity for this man, who had
striven so hard and without cause to take his life. He would
have been glad to go away now, but forced himself to approach and
look down at the Indian.
The warrior lay partly on his side with one arm beneath his
body. The blood from the bullet hole in his chest dyed the snow,
and Dick believed that he had been killed instantly. But Dick
would not touch him. He could not bring himself to do that. Nor
would he take any of his arms. Instead, he turned away, after
the single look, and, bending his head a little to the snow,
walked rapidly toward the yellowish glare that told where the sun
was rising. He did not know just why he went in that direction,
but it seemed to him the proper thing to walk toward the morning.
Two hours, perhaps, passed and the fall of snow began to
lighten. The flakes still came down steadily, but not in such a
torrent. The area of vision widened. He saw dimly, as through a
mist, three or four hundred yards, perhaps, but beyond was only
the white blur, and there was nothing yet to tell him whether he
was going toward the mountains or away from them.
He rested and ate again. Then he recovered somewhat, mentally as
well as physically. Part of the horror of the Indian, his deadly
pursuit, and the deadly ending passed. He ached with weariness
and his nerves were quite unstrung, but the snow would cease, the
skies would clear, and then he could tell which way lay the
mountains and his brother.
He rested here longer than usual and studied the plain as far as
he could see it. He concluded that its character had changed
somewhat, that the swells were high than they had been, and he
was hopeful that he might find shelter soon, a deep gully,
perhaps, or a shallow prairie stream with sheltering cottonwoods
along its course.
Another hour passed, but he did not make much progress. The
snow was now up to his knees, and it became an effort to walk.
The area of vision had widened, but no mountains yet showed
through the white mist. He was becoming tired with a tiredness
that was scarcely to be born. If he stood still long enough to
rest he became cold, a deadly chill that he knew to be the
precursor of death's benumbing sleep would creep over him, and
then he would force himself to resume the monotonous, aching
walk.
Dick's strength waned. His eyesight, affected by the glare of
the snow, became short and unsteady, and he felt a dizziness of
the brain. Things seemed to dance about, but his will was so
strong that he could still reason clearly, and he knew that he
was in desperate case. It was his will that resisted the impulse
of his flesh to throw his rifle away as a useless burden, but he
laughed aloud when he thought of the map of the United States in
the inside pocket of his coat.
"They'll find me, if they ever find me, with that upon me," he
said aloud, "and they, too, will laugh."
He stumbled against something and doubled his fist angrily as if
he would strike a man who had maliciously got in his way. It was
the solid bark of a big cottonwood that had stopped him, and his
anger vanished in joy. Where one cottonwood was, others were
likely to be, and their presence betokened a stream, a valley,
and a shelter of some kind.
He was still dazed, suffering partially from snow blindness, but
now he saw a line of sturdy cottonwoods and beyond it another
line. The stream, he knew, flowed between. He went down the
line a few hundred yards and came, as he had hoped, into more
broken ground.
The creek ran between banks six or seven feet high, with a margin
between stream and bank, and the cottonwoods on these banks
were reinforced by some thick clumps of willows. Between the
largest clump and the line of cottonwoods, with the bank as a
shelter for the third side, was a comparatively clear space.
The snow was only a few inches deep there, and Dick believed
that he could make a shelter. He had, of course, brought his
blanket with him in a tight roll on his back, and he was hopeful
enough to have some thought of building a fire.
He stooped down to feel in the snow at a likely spot, and the act
saved his life. A bullet, intended for his head, was buried in
the snow beyond him, and a body falling down the bank lay quite
still at his feet. It was the long Sioux. Wounded mortally, he
had followed Dick, nevertheless, with mortal intent, crawling,
perhaps most of the time, and with his last breath he had fired
what he intended to be the fatal shot.
He was quite dead now, his power for evil gone forever. There
could be no doubt about it. Dick at length forced himself to
touch the face. It had grown cold and the pulse in the wrist was
still. It yet gave him a feeling of horror to touch the Sioux,
but his own struggle for life would be bitter and he could spare
nothing. The dead warrior wore a good blanket, which Dick now
took, together with his rifle and ammunition, but he left all the
rest. Then he dragged the warrior from the sheltered space to a
deep snow bank, where he sank him out of sight. He even took the
trouble to heap more snow upon him in the form of a burial, and
he felt a great relief when he could no longer see the savage
brown features.
He went back to his sheltered space, and, upon the single
unprotected side threw up a high wall of snow, so high that it
would serve as a wind-break. Then he began to search for fallen
brushwood. Meanwhile, it was turning colder, and a bitter wind
began to moan across the plain.