He waited until the sun was sloping into the far west, its heat half gone. Then he mounted Ashur, and Nancy Brett joined him on the pinto.
For that was the day of days, so far as they were concerned. Rushing Wind was in command of the guard upon Torridon. And with him were two young braves.
In silence they rode out of the camp toward the river, but as they did so, young Rushing Wind was saying to the white man bitterly: “Why is it, White Thunder? What have the Cheyennes done to you? Why don’t you drive away the bad spirits?”
“Rushing Wind,” said Torridon, “I haven’t the power to do this thing.”
“Ah, my friend,” said the young brave, “I saw my father lying dead. You brought him back to life.”
“He was not dead. He was only very sick.”
“His eyes were half opened. His breath did not come,” said Rushing Wind. “To you that may not be death, but, to us, it seems death. But in a short time, you made my father strong. Already he sits up against a buffalo robe and asks for meat. But you, White Thunder, are angry with my people. You wish to punish them. Well, I am your friend and I tell you this as a friend. The Cheyennes are growing desperate. Some warrior who sees his son dying, some squaw who sees her strong husband falling sick, may run at you with a knife.”
Torridon made no reply.
For just then, out of the village, rode Rising Hawk, and with him were two tried and proved warriors, and they came straight toward Torridon and Rushing Wind.
Had some whisper of the plot to escape come to the ears of this stern young chieftain?
However, when he joined them he gave Torridon a quiet greeting, and simply fell in with the rest of the escort.
“What does it mean?” Torridon murmured to Rushing Wind.
The latter leaned far over and pretended to fumble at his girths. At the same time he whispered: “Give up any thought of escaping today. Rising Hawk suspects something, and he has come here to watch.”
Torridon straightened in the saddle and drew a great breath. He had no doubt that Rushing Wind spoke the truth, but he also felt a vast assurance that unless he managed to escape on this day, he never would live to leave the Cheyennes on the morrow. Even as they rode down toward the river, the wailing from the camp followed them from afar, like the screaming of birds of prey in the distance.
X
Rising Hawk was not the only addition to the guard. Presently Standing Bull was seen coming out from the village, armed to the teeth and riding on a dun-colored pony, celebrated as the fastest of his string.
Unquestionably it looked as though the Cheyennes had heard some whisper of the proposed plan to escape. Nancy Brett swung her pony a little closer to Torridon.
“You look like death,” she said. “You must smile . . . talk . . . do something to keep them busy and get their eyes off you. Start a game.”
“What game could I start?” Torridon asked heavily, for hope had left him.
“Horse racing, then?”
“Against Ashur? They know that they wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Give them a flying start. Paul, Paul, this is our last chance. Do something.”
Her energy and courage shamed him into making some sort of attempt.
He said cheerfully to Rising Hawk, as that dignitary came up: “Here are the fastest ponies among all the Cheyennes. Which is the finest of them all, Rising Hawk?”
The latter swept his glance over the number. “Who can tell which horse will win or which one will fail?” said the chief.
“Ah, well,” Torridon answered, “Standing Bull would have made a longer answer than that. He knows that his dun horse is the best one in the tribe.”
Rising Hawk turned, and the long eagle feathers stirred behind his head. “It is wrong,” he declared sententiously, “to count a coup before the enemy has been touched. And no scalp is taken until it hangs at the saddle bow. There is the horse of White Thunder himself. Does he compare his pony with yours?”
“My horse,” Torridon said, as though carelessly, “came from the sky as everyone knows. Standing Bull was comparing his horse with the others that were raised on the prairie. For my part, I think that your own pony, Rising Hawk, would throw dust in the eyes of the others. I have a good hatchet, here, that I would be willing to bet, if you were to run as far as to those trees and back.”
It was, in fact, an excellent hatchet of the best steel, and the handle had been roughened and ornamented by the sinking of many glass beads into the wood. When Torridon picked out the hatchet from the sling that held it, Rising Hawk watched with glittering eyes.
“Hai! Standing Bull!” he called. All the warriors drew near. “White Thunder thinks that my pony is the fastest of all these. He offers to bet his hatchet.”
Standing Bull expelled a breath with a sort of groan. “You have a good horse,” he said, “and the horse has a good rider. But I would ride for the sake of that same hatchet.”
There was not a warrior in the band but had the same thought.
A course was suggested to a tree half a mile away and back. Suddenly there was dismounting and looking to girths. But Rising Hawk said sullenly: “The rest of you ride. I shall stay here with my friend, White Thunder.”
The first hope of Torridon disappeared like a thin mist. Rising Hawk did not intend that the prisoner should escape so easily. He would make surety doubly sure.
However, Torridon added in haste: “I’ll ride in the same race with you. Why not? I shall start fifty steps to the rear of the others. Perhaps I can catch you.”
“Perhaps,” Rising Hawk said with a satisfied smile.
And, in an instant, they had lined up their horses.
Nancy Brett was to have her part, which consisted in holding her own pony to the side of the others and dropping her raised arm as a signal. Torridon reined back black Ashur to the rear. He gave Nancy one fixed look as he did so, and she nodded ever so slightly in return.
They understood one another. The heart of Torridon turned to ice, and all his nerves quivered like wires under a breaking strain. In the meantime, the Cheyennes had gathered at the mark. Every moment, Torridon expected Rising Hawk to call him closer. But though that chief twice turned in his saddle and marked the distance to which Torridon had withdrawn with the black horse, still he made no objection.
The attention of every Indian was now occupied with his pony. Those keen little animals, as though they knew what was wanted of them, began to rear and pitch and kick, and when they lined up, first one and then another strove to dart away.
Several heart-breaking minutes passed in this fashion. But at last the hand of Nancy fell, and the Cheyennes were off the mark with a loud grunting of the ponies as they struggled to get at once into full stride.
Nancy followed then one instant with her eyes. Then Ashur bore down on her.
As keen as any of the Indian horses for the race, the great black stallion had started with a lurch that almost tore Torridon from the saddle, but in an instant he had mastered the big horse with a touch on the reins and a word. He swerved to the left, and, turning her agile little pony around, Nancy fell in at the side of Ashur.
They made straight for the river, above the rocks, where the bed fanned out very broad, and a horse could be ridden easily and quickly through the shallows.
At the top of the bank, they looked back and saw that the furious riders were still rushing ahead for the tree that was the turning point of their race. Rising Hawk, true to his promise, was beginning to forge into the lead.
When they turned that tree, they would see that Torridon was not with them—was not in sight. And they would come like demons to catch him again.