Torridon could not hear the sound of the ball. He felt that they were still too far off to be damaged by such a fire, but he glanced eagerly at Nancy. She gave him that quick, bright smile that meant that all was well.
“The whip, Nan!” he cried to her.
“It’s no good,” she answered. “He’s doing his best.”
“The whip! The whip!” he begged.
She obeyed, cutting the little fellow resolutely down the flank, and the result showed that Torridon was right. The little horse, tossing his head, certainly added to his pace.
More and more that hawk-like pair fell to the rear. And ease began to come again over poor Torridon. Still he was by no means sure. Struck by the whip from time to time, the pony certainly was giving his best now. He was strung out straight as a string from head to tail. Foam and sweat ran from him, and his nostrils strained wide, showing the fiery-red lining as he strove to take down deeper breaths of the vital air.
And well and truly was he running, for he was standing off the prolonged challenge of the fastest mounts in that section of the Cheyennes.
Slowly, slowly the sun began to sink. It entered the region of the horizon mist, which stood well up above the level of the plain, and as it turned from fire to gold Torridon smiled faintly and looked again to Nancy. She was looking a bit white and drawn, now, but she never flinched, and well it was that her nerve remained steady and true.
For again the Indians were coming. The main body was some distance back, but the two young falcons in the lead were rushing forward with a wonderful velocity. Torridon could see that with hand and heel they were tormenting the poor horses into greater efforts. There simply was not strength in the arms of Nancy to equal those torments, and, if there had been, she had not the heart for such riding.
So Torridon spoke no more to urge her. He did not need to speak, for every glance she cast at him showed her the agony in his eyes, and that was more than shouted words to her.
Far ahead he saw the streak of shadow that showed where trees were rising above the level of the plain. There, he felt, might be shelter, but he knew in his heart that there was no shelter whatever. It could be no more than the fringing of trees along the bank of a small stream that cut through the plains, and in such a meager wood there would not be a moment’s hiding from the sharp eyes of the Indians.
Even that shelter it seemed impossible they should make, for the Cheyennes were pressing closer and closer.
“Nan, Nan,” he cried, “for heaven’s sake make one grand effort!”
The brave flashing smile she gave him once more and began to jockey the pony as though she were sprinting him over a short course.
He looked back and studied the situation again.
They were neither losing nor gaining, now. Her utmost effort was just able to maintain the pace of the pursuers. Looking back, Torridon could see what had happened to the rest of the Cheyennes.
Well behind the two young leaders was a group of some half a dozen braves, among them Standing Bull and Rising Hawk, and counted among the rest, the finest horsemen among the Cheyennes. But the bulk of the leaders were off on the horizon’s verge.
So much the pinto had done, at least. He had sunk the majority of the Cheyenne riders. Only the chosen few remained. But Torridon groaned as he gazed back at them. Two young devils worked in the lead. Behind them came the cream of the entire nation.
The screen of trees before him was all to which he could look forward. After that, death, perhaps. He would not let his mind go past the rising shadow.
Night, at least, would not come down in time. The sun’s lower rim was barely touching the horizon, and afterward would be the long twilight—and now every moment was more than hours, sapping the strength that remained to the pinto. Gallantly, gallantly he ran, but he had not on his back a torturing fiend to make of him a super-horse.
Now, glancing forward again, Torridon saw the screen of green rising straight before him. Beyond it was the gleam of water. Was it a fordable place? He hoped so, because the Indians behind did not swerve off to either side.
He said to Nancy: “Ride straight forward. Take the water, but not too fast, and let him walk up the farther bank. Then use what strength is left him to ride him on across the plain.”
She stared at him with great eyes. “What do you intend to do, Paul?”
He shouted furiously: “Are you going to argue? Do as I tell you!”
Her head sank a little. He felt as though he had struck her in the face, but he cared nothing for that. He had determined on a last desperate bid for their safety—for a moment’s hope in their flight, at the least.
Now he was riding through the thin screen of the willows, and, as he did so, he checked the black stallion and whirled him around; the pinto already was at the water, striking it with an almost metallic crash.
As he whirled the horse about, he saw the two young Cheyennes converge their horses a little, making for the gap between the trees through which the fugitives had ridden, and now Torridon could see the grins of unearthly joy on their faces, the wild glitter of their eyes. Already they were tasting the pleasure of the coup, the death stroke, the scalping.
As for Nancy, she would be reserved—for the teepee of Standing Bull.
He raised his pistol. Both shots must bring down a man, for otherwise it would mean sudden death, clutched by the other young tiger.
They saw that movement. One of them raised his lance and hurled it, but his horse at that moment stumbled, and, although the range was short, the long, slender weapon went past Torridon’s head with a soft, wavering hum that he would never forget to his death’s day.
The second had caught his rifle to the ready, and from this position he fired it, missed grossly, and then swung the heavy weapon with both hands, making ready to use it as a club to dash out the brains of the white man, and the while riding and guiding the pony with the grip of his powerful knees alone.
For a fraction of a second Torridon had held his fire. Not that there was no fear in him. He was cold with it. But as had happened before in dreadful crises of his life, that fear was not benumbing. It left his brain perfectly clear. He gave the first barrel of the pistol to the left-hand man—the lancer, who had now jerked a war club from his saddlebow. And the long years of practice that Torridon had given to that little weapon were useful now.
He took the head for his target and saw the young warrior slung from his saddle as though struck by a vast weight. The second barrel he gave to the other rider. There was no time, now, for delicate precision in aiming. He shot the man through the body and saw the grin of exultant triumph turn to a ghastly expression of horror, agony, and dreadful determination.
With the long rifle balanced for the blow, the brave rushed his pony in. Just above the head of Torridon the danger swayed, and then glanced harmlessly to the side.
The youth struck the ground with a strange and horrible jouncing sound, like the fall of a half-filled water barrel, and rolled rapidly over and over.
Two riderless ponies turned right and fled, frightened, among the trees.
XII
It affected Torridon, at that moment, like a rush of wind against him. And indeed, the dust that the horses of the two dead men had raised was still blowing up against his face. No, not like the passage of wind, but the light of two dim spirits, suddenly launched into nothingness on this calm, clear, beautiful evening.