CHAPTER XIII
“THAT'S JUST LIKE HIM!”
ALDEN PAYNE and Jethro Mix stared in silence for several seconds. Then the terrified negro gasped in a husky voice:
“Lets run like blazes!”
The appeal roused his master. He glanced from the pony and the prostrate rider to the opposite bluffs, and at every hiding place of an enemy in his field of vision. Since the tragedy had taken place within the last few minutes, the criminal could not be far off.
There was the vast, precipitous gorge along the side of which wound the broad path that had been traversed by hundreds of men and animals, and along which the Express Riders had galloped at headlong speed times without number. There were scores of places among the towering rocks and piles of stone that would hide a host of miscreants from sight. The fatal arrow might have been launched from any one of them, and the youth could not guess which. At any rate no dusky head showed itself. The weapon that had been used gave out no sound and whether there was one assassin or a dozen must remain unknown to Alden.
The feeling which succeeded the first horrifying shock was one of profound pity for the victim. Young, vigorous, full of bounding life and hope, his cheering words lingered yet in the ears of the couple, and here he lay on the ground his life driven out by the arrow launched by a demon in wantonness, for Dick Lightfoot had never harmed a hair in the head of one of his kind.
Jethro was almost speechless, for he expected other deadly missiles to hurtle through the air at him and his companion. The chances as the negro viewed them were a hundred to one that the two would never leave the spot alive; at any rate they would not do so if they tarried another minute. But he dared not go of his own accord and knew better than to protest to Alden.
Some idea of what had taken place must have passed through the intelligent brain of the Express Rider’s pony. He had stopped suddenly when his master fell from the saddle, and one could almost fancy his reproving grief when he looked around in quest of the cruel slayer. Seeing no one, he walked slowly back to the senseless form, and lowering his nose began snuffing at it, as if he did not quite understand it all.
Without a word, Alden Payne slipped off his horse and stooped over the body. “Dick” did not notice him, but kept up his snuffing as if begging an answer. Alden reached down and grasping the shoulder, carefully turned over the still warm body. An Indian arrow driven with infernal force and accuracy, had done its work. The point had passed clean through, piercing the heart in its passage. Dick Lightfoot had died instantly.
“Poor fellow!” murmured Alden; “a lightning stroke could not have brought you down more suddenly. In the few minutes we were together I learned to like you, and this is the end.”
In the shock of the sorrowful occurrence Alden Payne could not forget the perilous situation of himself and companion. It was foolhardy to stay where they were, for beyond doubt they were exposed to the same danger. Alden’s delay was caused by the question whether he could do any service in the circumstances. His first thought was of lifting the body to the back of his horse, and either riding or walking beside it to camp. Then he feared that such action would call down an attack on him and Jethro and defeat its purpose.
“I’ll leave the body here till our folks come up, when they can give it burial; or Shagbark and several of us will come forward and bring it away to-night.”
The probability of such purpose failing led Alden to search the clothing. He took out a small gold watch, several letters and a trifling amount of money which he carefully placed in his own pockets. The sad duty finished he straightened and was on the point of remounting beside his trembling companion, when a thought flashed upon him.
“Jeth, I’m going to take his place!”
The stare of the African showed he did not understand.
“We’ll bofe take his place if we wait here any longer!” he stammered.
“I’m going to ride his pony to the next station and deliver the mail for him.”
Even then Jethro was bewildered by the words of his companion.
“W-what you driving at, Al? Talk English, won’t you?”
Knowing that in this case actions were clearer than words, Alden spoke gently to Dick, rubbed his nose, patted his neck, and then placing the toe of his foot in the stirrup swung himself into the saddle. The mail pouches had not been disturbed, and the new rider was ready to take up the duty of Dick Lightfoot where he had laid it down forever.
“You doan’ mean dat you’s gwine to try to ride to de next station on dat horse!” exclaimed the astonished Jethro.
“I shall try it, Jeth; you will take Firebug to camp and tell Shagbark, Mr. Fleming and the rest what I have done.”
“You can’t mean it, Al! What’s de matter wid you; I knowed you war a fool but nebber thought you was such a big one as dis.”
The situation did not permit any offense. “You doan’ know de way!” added Jethro desperately.
“You heard Lightfoot say his pony knows every foot of it; I shall leave that part of the business to him.”
“But—but,” sputtered the African, “what’s gwine to come ob me?”
This after all was the crucial question. Jethro was alarmed more for his own safety than because of anything else.
Despite the tense situation, Alden lost patience.
“You have a better chance than I; I’m going into danger and you are going out of it; off with you without another word!”
Alden turned the head of Fireburg down the trail and slapped his haunch. The animal started away at once on a brisk trot, knowing what was required of him. Then his master handed his rifle to Jethro. He had picked up the weapon from the ground near the body, but did not take the revolver of the fallen man.
“That gives you two guns; this one is better than mine and I’ll use it.”
Without another word, he jerked the reins sharply and spoke to the pony:
“Now, Dick, show what you can do!”
Everything was clear to the sagacious animal, who sped away like an arrow for the station miles distant.
“Ob all de disprobous treatment dis am de wust I eber had,” growled Jethro, who started Jilk down the trail after Firebug, who was now a number of rods distant. That the dusky horseman was in a state of terror need not be repeated. He forced his animal to a pace that quickly brought him beside the other.
“Go it, Firebug!” he called, and the pony changed his trot to a gallop which carried him swiftly down the incline, with Jilk at his heels. “I ’spose our folks am ’bout sebenteen thousand miles back somewhere and it’ll take me a week to find ’em if I got de chance.”
It was like running the gauntlet, when the endangered one expects a fatal blow at every step and is pretty sure to receive it. Jethro glanced to the right and left, over his shoulder and in advance.
The incline made the traveling easy. After reaching the level, there was no reason why the headlong pace should not be kept up for the remainder of the distance to the train.
Amid the fluttering hope and dread, the African nearly pitched from the saddle, when several whoops rang out in the stillness. He was so terrified he could not tell the direction whence they came, but he thought it was from the rear. He drove Jilk to his highest speed and Firebug increased his pace correspondingly.
The next instant the whoops sounded again, hut they came from the front!
“Gorrynation!” gasped Jethro drawing on his bridle rein; “dey am on ebery side; de only way out oh dis muss is for Jilk to climb up de sides ob de rocks.”
Could he have believed he was not in plain view of his enemies, Jethro would have leaped from his saddle and hidden himself. He thought of doing it as matters stood, but dared not.
The quick glances to the right and left of the gorge failed to show him any one of his enemies, but he knew they were there. Had there been any doubt as to that it vanished the next moment when an arrow flitted like a swallow between him and the streaming forelock of his pony.
“I’m a goner!” he wailed, throwing himself forward so as to be as flat as possible on the back of his animal.
He reflected that the missile had passed in front of him, so that it looked as if he were placing himself nearer the path of other similar missiles. But he was going all the time, and the next one would possibly go behind, or more likely through him.
It will be remembered that he had a loaded rifle in either hand. Had he carried out his first idea and dashed for refuge behind one of the nearest boulders, he ought to have been able to put up a good fight and stand off the redskins until the sounds of firing brought Shagbark and his friends to his relief, but Jethro lacked courage to try the scheme.
So long as the authors of the yells did not appear in the gorge in front, he had a faint hope of being able to get through to camp. It must be done, however, by forcing the speed, which he proceeded to do.
Aside from the horror of being struck, was the dread that Jilk might be disabled. If that calamity should befall, Jethro would then skurry to some hiding place and make the best defense he could. So long as his pony was capable of running, he was not spared.
Firebug was naturally fleeter than Jilk, and having no burden to carry, easily held his place some yards in front. He was traveling with a speed which caused mane and tail to stream out, while the loose stirrups dangled and flew about against the ribs of the animal.
Jethro’s hopes rose with every rod passed.
“Dem sarpents hain’t got any critters dat can trabel like ourn, and bime by, Jilk, we’ll be out ob de woods ef dere ain’t more ob ’em waiting down de gorge—”
A sharp twinge in the back thrilled him.
“I’m hit!” he exclaimed faintly; “dey hab sarbed me de same way dat dey sarbed dat Express Rider; dey’re after my scalp but I’ll stick in de saddle till I reaches Mr. Shagbark, ef I doan’ die afore.”
In the ecstasy of terror he glanced down his breast, for he had partly straightened up a moment before he felt the pain. He expected to see the pointed bit of flint sticking out in front, but did not.
“It didn’t go cl’ar frough, but it’s jest as bad; I can’t lib more dan a few minutes; go it, Jilk!”
Once again the tremulous whoops sounded above the clumping of the ponies’ hoofs, but they came this time from the rear. Except for that sudden twinge in his back, Jethro would have felt a renewal of hope. At the same time he could not be certain he would not run into a score or more of his enemies.
A half mile was speedily passed and not another throbbing yell reached his ears. Jethro sat upright in his saddle, and a few minutes later shifting the two guns to his left hand, reached his right around to grasp the shaft of the arrow and draw it forth.
To his amazement he could not feel it. He was able to grope with the hand, from between his shoulder blades to the saddle. Especially the spot where the twinge had been felt was examined. He touched naught but the smooth back of his coat.
“It must have drapped out,” he muttered with a wild hope; “dat’s mighty qu’ar,” he added; “de pain ain’t dere any more but has gone inter de big toe ob my right fut.”
In his whimsical mood he glanced down at the shoe in the stirrup. Nothing was the matter there.
“I hain’t been hit at all!” he exclaimed with a new thrill this time of unalloyed bliss; “it must hab been de rheumatics dat shifted to my toe.”
Certain it was that he had not been so much as grazed by any of the arrows that the prowling redskins had discharged at him.
Ten minutes later as he swept round another turn in the gorge, he saw Shagbark riding a little way in front of the train. Inasmuch as the emigrants and Jethro were approaching each other, the distance had been considerably shortened thereby.
Shagbark the veteran never showed more amazement and fear, than when he caught sight of the riderless Firebug galloping toward him with the negro close behind. He stopped his horse, threw up his head and stared. Before Jethro could check his pony, the hunter demanded:
“What’s the matter? What does it all mean; whar’s the younker?”
“Dead!” was the fearful reply.
“How did it happen?”
Abner Fleming and several others caught sight of the African and rode hurriedly forward.
Jethro had halted his panting animal and replied:
“Ain’t sartin he’s dead, but dere ain’t much doubt ob it.”
“What bus’ness have ye to be here if anything went wrong with the younker?” thundered the hunter, with a dangerous glitter in his eyes; “why did ye leave him?”
“He made me come back wid Firebug, Mr. Shagbarak,” explained the servant.
Finally, after a score of questions, Jethro made plain what had happened. Every one listened with breathless attention. When it was understood, Shagbark chuckled:
“So the younker took the place of the Express Rider, eh? Wal, he’ll git through all right, but I say that’s jest like him; there’s good stuff in that chap.”