The whisper of Silver said: “Give me the bag. Follow me!”
Wayland passed the saddlebag over, readily. There was no other man in the world that he would have rendered it to, but he had not an instant’s misgiving.
Then he saw a warning gesture from Silver, and observed the man collapse suddenly along the ground. Wayland did the same. He even had sufficient presence of mind to push his numbed arms behind his back and so he lay with the terrible consciousness that a head and shoulders loomed above the rocks against the stars.
Joe Mantry had come to look at the group inside the nest of rocks. If he gave a casual glance, all might be well. If he used his wits, he could not fail to make out the bleared outlines of four forms instead of three.
A shudder of electric fire filled the brain of Wayland— and then he saw the silhouette disappear!
Silver’s whisper reached him at the same instant, saying: “Follow me. Down into the water after me.”
And he saw the body of Silver slide down noiselessly into the stream.
He followed, as cautiously as he could.
The cold seized him. The fingers of ice laid hold on his bones. And then the force of the water carried him rapidly forward, while with his hands on the bottom he tried to ease his way.
A projecting rock struck him heavily on the chest. He gasped. Water entered his throat and half strangled him. Instinctively he rose from the shallow stream and fell forward again into the water with a loud splashing.
Voices were shouting, instantly, behind him, and a gun began to fire rapidly.
XXII—FLAMING GUNS
He dived forward again into the icy stream. Its cold meant nothing to him now. Vaguely, before him, he saw the shadows of the brush. He rose again and stumbled toward it, as though its arms could shield him even from bullets.
He saw the big body of Silver rise from the water, also, and felt the hand of Silver catch him and drag him into the brush. Looking back, he saw fire spitting from three guns, near the camp. Those points of light winked closer and closer as the three began to run forward. At the same time, he heard the sound of a muffled, heavy blow, and Jim Silver lunged forward and struck the ground.
Wayland could not realize what had happened. Silver was a fact in the world as indestructible, as permanent as the mountains. Mere powder and lead could not, it seemed, do him harm. And yet now he lay there motionless on the ground!
The saddlebag with the loot in it had tumbled across the body of the fallen man. And he, Wayland, had been the clumsy fool who had drawn the attention of Joe Mantry to the flight.
There was one wild impulse in Wayland to snatch up the saddlebag and flee for his life with the treasure. Then he saw the body on the ground stir, and the madness left his brain.
He caught one of Silver’s guns, and standing straight, he opened fire on the three forms that were racing toward him. Over the tips of the bushes he could see them scatter to right and left suddenly, and disappear in the woods.
At the same time, a thin whistle sounded from the ground. That was Silver giving a call that was answered by a great rushing, and Parade dashed up through the brush with Frosty beside him.
A gasping voice came from Silver and the stallion slumped to the ground beside him.
“Get me into the saddle. Parade will carry double. Get me into the saddle, Wayland!” breathed the voice of Silver.
Wayland, shuddering with dread, laid his hands and all his strength on the wounded man. And still his brain would not admit that this helpless bulk of flesh could be Jim Silver. But Silver it was, and the great horse that had kneeled like an Arab’s camel was Parade, and the green-eyed monster that snarled softly, close to them, was Frosty, the wolf.
So Wayland worked the burden of Silver’s almost inert body onto the back of the horse.
He heard Bray, calling: “Joe, go back for horses. Dave, come on with me. Cut in toward the bank of the creek. We’ll get ‘em. Shoot at anything you see. Hell is loose in the air!”
Instantly there was the explosion of a gun, and a bullet clattered through the branches close to Wayland’s head.
He thought, for an instant, that he had been seen and was a visible target, but the shot was not repeated for another moment. And in the meantime. Parade had lunged to his feet.
Wayland swung up behind the wounded man. To manage the saddlebag with one hand and grip the body of Silver with the other was all that he could do. He had to leave Parade to his own head, and that seemed, after all, the better way.
For the big horse wound rapidly through the brush, dodged among the trees, and came out in the open floor of a valley just beyond.
In the east, there was a growing pyramid of yellow, pale light to tell where the moon was about to rise. Behind them, in the woods, voices were calling out more dimly.
They had escaped safely, it seemed. But what did the escape mean if the life of Jim Silver were running momentarily out of his body?
“Lift me up. Help me,” commanded the murmur of Silver.
Wayland used his strength to lift up the torso of the wounded man. And the bulk of Silver lolled heavily back against him. A shadowy horseman swept out from the right and made straight toward them. Wayland leveled a revolver at the right.
“Steady!” said Silver. “It’s not one of the three. It’s Lovell. He’s with us against the others, no matter what sort of a rat he is. Wayland, get me across the valley and into the trees. Leave me there. Go on with Lovell. Get yourselves away from danger, quick!”
Get across the valley into the opposite trees—leave Jim Silver—save themselves?
The mustang of Lovell drew up beside them as Parade struck forward with a long, easy canter.
“The saddlebag?” he called. “Did you get it?”
“Silver’s hurt,” said Wayland. “Watch out behind us. Silver’s hurt!”
“That’s his luck,” cried Lovell. “Have you got the bag? I see it. Here, give it to me. I’ll take care of it! We’ll pull together, partner!”
The hungry stupidity of Lovell made Wayland almost smile.
He shouted in answer: “They’re coming! Follow on Lovell!”
For far behind them they could distinctly hear the beat of hoofs and the crashing of brush as riders drove their horses recklessly through the woods. And as Parade increased his pace, throwing up his head and half turning it, as though inquiring after the state of his master, as Frosty began to labor his best to keep up with the long-striding stallion, Lovell fell cursing behind the leader.
They swept across the valley. They were entering the edge of the opposite forest when Wayland heard the loud yell of men tingling out of the distance—Indian yells of triumph—and he knew that the three had sight of their quarry.
He estimated their strength quickly. Silver would be of ho use for fighting, probably. That left Lovell, who would be a treacherous companion, to say the best. And as for himself, Wayland knew that he was a very poor shot.
Against him and the doubtful quantity of Lovell there were ranged the adroit shrewdness of Dave Lister, the pantherlike ferocity and killing instinct of Joe Mantry, and above all the more capacious and patient strength of Philip Bray.
What could the fugitives do? Even Parade could not carry double for an indefinite time. And the moon was riding now, to show the way to the pursuit
The light from the east threw long, slanting shadows among the trees.
Now, as they labored up the slope of the hill. Silver was saying:
“You can let me down anywhere. Frosty’ll stay with me. If you give Parade his head, he may be willing to carry you away from me. I don’t know. I hope he will. Give him his head, and he may keep on with Lovell’s horse. But if you try to rein him and control him, he’ll fight you till he kills you or you kill him. Let me down anywhere—and run for your lives!”