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Peril Finders

<h3>Chapter Forty.</h3> <h4>An Unconscious Double.</h4> It was all Chris could do in his excitement and alarm to keep from crying aloud to his pony to go faster and faster, though after a few strides it seemed as if the rider’s fear was communicated, and it was tearing over the rocky ground with all its might, making the stones fly as they were smitten in the furious gallop. But fortunately not a word escaped between the boy’s firmly-set teeth. Settling himself well down in the saddle, he felt that his only chance of saving himself from being a prisoner, perhaps from a horrible death, was to trust entirely to his pony, leave it free to go as it willed. Of the character of his pursuers there was no doubt. They were Indians, the regular savage Indians of the plains, whose cruelties to settlers were the theme of many a horrible story told at camp-fire and in solitary shanty. Chris knew of their deeds well enough, but it had never entered his mind that the time would come when he would be tearing through the darkness over the rugged stones of a rocky gulch, flying for his life with an ever-increasing pack baying and yelling at his heels. For during the first minute or two he had been chased by three or four; after that the numbers, as betrayed by their yells, rapidly increased, till as they secured their pegged-out horses and sprang upon their backs, fully fifty must have joined in the chase. They were well mounted, too, upon the tough, wiry horses of the plains, quite at home on the roughest of ground, and at first as Chris tore on they seemed to be gaining upon him fast; but their savage yells, however much they alarmed, had another effect upon Chris’s mustang, making the gallant little beast toss its long mane, raise its long, plume-like tail till it floated out behind, and stretching out neck and legs, its length growing closer to the track, it tore away like a greyhound, avoiding obstacles as if by some occult force, and making the air whistle by the fugitive’s ears. Chris could ride well. Many a leading race he had indulged in against Ned on the open prairie-like land long before this expedition, while since then the tedium of their journey had often been lightened by a mad gallop, as much enjoyed by the steeds as by those they bore swiftly along over the level sands; but the boy had never ridden before as he rode now. For he seemed to form part and parcel of the wiry little mustang, as he leaned over towards its straining neck to pat and caress and now and then twine the thick hairs of the mane about the fingers of his right-hand, the left that still held the rein allowing it to flap lower against the neck, while each pat and caress was responded to by a snort. That seemed no time for thinking, but Chris thought hard—harder than he had ever thought before. He was not afraid, for there was a strange feeling of excitement, a wild thrill of exhilaration, accompanying the race, which made him long once more to shout aloud. For himself he thought nothing, but his thoughts were of his father, and the agony and despair he would suffer if it so happened that his boy was captured and slain; and by degrees these thoughts impressed him so that his desires became centred in one, and that was, to gallop away from the savage pack, leaving them far behind, and riding on and on till he could rejoin his father in triumph and tell him that he was safe. There were moments in that wild race when Chris’s excitement grew into fierce exultation, when the stones were flying, the pony’s hot breath floating back to his cheeks, and the yelling of the savages began to grow faint; and then again moments when the mustang’s efforts seemed to flag and the yells of the Indians increasing in loudness came nearer and nearer, till the boy had hard work to keep from wrenching himself round in the saddle to try and pierce the black darkness to gaze defiantly at the fierce starting eyeballs and gleaming teeth of those who were hunting him for his blood. These changes came again and again as the mustang tore along, now leaving the yells behind, now slackening or seeming to slacken, till the Indians’ whoops were very near, ringing behind and even passing the fugitive, to run echoing from side to side multiplying the burst of cries. Then all at once the chase settled down into a wilder gallop, as a feeling of terror influenced the boy. “We must be getting nearer the stone in the middle of the gulch where I hid,” thought Chris, “and he’ll run full into it.” But the next moment he felt that they could not be half-way yet, and his ears began to sing in the darkness as the yells of the Indians sounded louder and louder, while the echoes given back by the closing-in walls were deafening. Nearer and nearer they sounded—those savage yells—and once more Chris leaned forward to caress the mustang’s neck. “Oh, go on, old lad,” he whispered; “faster, faster, or they’ll have us.” And then the whisper, unheard in the turmoil of yell and echo, became a cry of agony embodied in the simple homely words which told of the boy’s suffering and the despair now gripping him by the heart, for out of the black darkness came a fresh burst of yells that were horrible in their intensity, and full of triumph in their tones, as if those who shouted were certain of their quarry. Chris’s heart sank low indeed, for the end seemed to have come. Involuntarily now both hands clutched and clung to the pony’s shaggy mane. For just as it seemed to the fugitive that the foremost horses were upon him and their riders’ hands were outstretched to tear him from his saddle, the mustang made a sudden swerve and what seemed to be a slip. But it did not go down, recovering itself in an instant, but only to drop from a furious gallop into a laboured canter which became directly after a painful walk, while Chris felt as if he had received a blow which had stupefied him, deadening his hearing so that he only heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs and the yelling of the riders as if from a distance, growing fainter and fainter till they died away. “What’s the matter? Am I hurt?” panted the boy, as, passing the rein over his wrist, he clapped his hands to his temples, sitting upright and swaying with his pony’s movements the while. The only answer was the hoarse panting of the pony as, evidently striving hard, it kept on at the walk, full of effort, and Chris began to grasp the fact that in the swerve made by the plucky little steed the Indians had swept by at full gallop, while, unnoticed in the darkness, the pony had turned up the side gorge which his master had passed in coming and passed again upon his return, being fast asleep, when the mustang had stopped to sniff and hesitate, and finally chosen the way which led them right into the Indians’ camp. “Why, they’ve missed us,” exclaimed Chris, whose heart began now to beat wildly in the fresh excitement of the moment. For his head was still confused, and he was trying hard to make out how it was that the Indians had managed to pass him earlier in the evening, even now being too much puzzled to make out the mistake that had occurred. For in the great darkness of the narrow gorge they were ascending the boy’s brain seemed to participate. He could not grasp that by this narrow descent the Indians had gained the gulch directly after he had passed to take up his position as scout. In short, all he had room for in his head then was the one great thought, that for the present, thanks to the pony, he had escaped, and for the minor piece of easily-grasped knowledge that the panting beast was toiling—literally climbing up a very steep and narrow rift in the side of the cliff; where he was going and what was to be the end, he could not tell. After a time the efforts of the pony grew less; it ceased to drag itself up as if forcing its hoofs into the crevices of the rock to climb foot by foot. The way was still steep, and the darkness so thick that for a time Chris could make out nothing of the sides; but in time the strip of purply-black sky gemmed with stars became wider, the edges not so ragged, and all at once it struck the boy that they were not climbing over stones, for the sound of the hoofs was deadened. This lasted for a time, during which Chris began to breathe more easily as he looked about him and questioned himself as to where he was, while little by little the facts came to fit themselves together like the pieces of a puzzle which now seemed very simple, so that it only needed a fresh act on the part of the mustang to make all clear. Fully a couple of hours must have passed since the wild hunt in which he had been the quarry; but there it all was now, as the pony stopped suddenly, lowered its head, and began to crop steadily with the sounds so familiar to the hearer, at the soft grass down to which Chris now sprang, to stand looking about him. “Of course,” he said. “We must have climbed up here to what father called the tableland, and somewhere farther on, I suppose, we should come to the edge of the cliff and look down into the valley with the openings facing one. “But not now,” he said, with a shudder, as he thought of the perpendicular character of the cliff-faces. “Yes, that’s all clear now; the Indians must have come along here while I was going along the gulch, and soon after I had passed they got down and turned the other way, making for the valley, and getting in perhaps before my people had secured all the stores and things. Oh, what have I done?” he cried bitterly. “Failed—horribly failed! Now how am I to find out what has happened since? Has there been a terrible fight? Can I go down now and see? “No—no—no,” came three dreary answers. “Part of the Indians may be down there by the built-up cliffs; the others will be coming back soon; and what could I do in this darkness, with it far darker in the valley? “If I only knew what has happened since!” he said, with a groan full of despair, as, dropping down upon the soft turf, half-sitting, half-kneeling, he gazed in the direction where he supposed the great hollow to be, listened to the crop—crop—crop of the grazing beast, and wondered how long it would be before the daylight came. It was long—a long and weary time, for there was no sleepy sensation now. Chris had had his first taste of a very real danger. He could not hide from himself the knowledge that he had been quite near the end of all his bright, hopeful aspirations. The chase after him had been so savage that he had no faith in being made a well-treated prisoner. The Indians had been too ready and too fierce in their onslaught to show mercy, and there was a sickening feeling at his heart respecting what might have happened during his long absence. Perhaps they had attacked his friends directly after reaching the valley, and if so they had probably received such a lesson as explained their savage demonstration upon seeing him. “It will all be made clear,” thought the boy, “as soon as the day comes.” But all the same he did not feel at all confident about what he asserted, neither did he feel at all happy about himself. “How am I to get back to the valley?” he said. “I suppose it would be easy enough to go down that steep slope into the gulch, but I should be sure to find some of the savages waiting for me there, and even if there were none I don’t suppose they all came after me. There were sure to be some left in their camp. “What can I do?” he muttered. “There is no other way into the valley, and what can I do alone?” He had seated himself in the darkness to watch the stars slowly seeming to pass from east to west, and as he said half-aloud those words about being alone he slowly fingered the revolver-holster on one side of his belt and the hunting-knife in its sheath, which done, he pulled at the strap which slung his rifle, and getting it round to the front he rested it upon his knees, and began mechanically to examine the breech as if to make sure that he had cartridges in each barrel. They were there safe enough, and he closed the breech and was about to drag the piece into its regular place again; but something struck him which made him get the rifle back into position, re-open the breech, and take out one of the cartridges, before opening his pouch and exchanging it for another. A curious sensation ran through the boy’s frame as he did this. He felt uncomfortable and as if he were about to do some wrong thing, for the cartridge he withdrew was filled with number six shot such as he would use for killing small birds that they could use for their meals, while the one he inserted in its place contained a long conical bullet, and he knew he was not putting that ready in case he should encounter a bear. He would not own it to himself—he dreaded to think about it—but all the while he could not help feeling that it must be a duty to defend his own life, and certainly was one to try and protect his father and his friends. But Chris Lee was uncomfortable all the same, and tried hard to keep all such thoughts back, as he once more began to watch the stars, and listened to the crop, crop of the pony, which seemed to be revelling in the soft, dew-wet grass, whose pleasant odour rose to his nostrils as the animal kept on uttering the familiar blowing sound to drive away insects before nibbling off tufts and grinding them between its fine teeth. “Poor fellow,” he said softly; “he saved my life.” And then he remarked to himself upon its being strange that the mustang did not go far away from him, but evidently preferred grazing round and round as if it were pleasanter to keep close to its companion, man. It was a long, long time, during which, without once feeling the want of rest, Chris still watched the stars, before he uttered a sigh of relief, for they were certainly growing paler and there was a faint suggestion of light just where, he reflected, the east would lie. Moreover, he was where he had hoped he might find himself, and that was not far from opposite the piece of terraced cliff where he hoped that his friends might be. He went at once to the pony and led it with him, now moving very cautiously for fear of danger, towards the edge of the cliff, in the hope that as it grew lighter some one might catch sight of him and wave him a signal that he might take as a piece of advice. But it was still dark below, and he knew the folly of expecting to see any one looking up to where he stood, feeling in his heart that it was far more likely that they might be lying in wait for his return far away towards the entrance of the gully, ready to cover his retreat if he made an attempt to rush in. “But I can’t,” he said to himself dolefully. “It’s impossible to get down there.” He wanted to get close to the edge of the cliff, to stand above the ranges of cells facing those they had explored; but it was still too dark, for he knew not what rifts or precipitous places might score the tableland upon which he stood; and the day was coming so slowly, while he grew more impatient minute by minute. There were moments when he thought it would be unwise to expose himself on the top, for if there were Indians in the depression looking sharply about, according to their nature, he would be showing where they could stand a better chance of hunting him down in the full light of day. But if they did attempt such a thing he began wondering whether it would be possible to lead them a long chase, gradually working round till he could make a dash for the gulch and so join his friends. He could not help feeling that there was little likelihood of this, and then his attention was taken up by the strengthening of the light away to his right, and he started with surprise to see that, from a different point of view of course, he could look upon the very spot where Wilton had caught sight of the Indians gazing down into the valley before drawing back and taking evidently a long round to reach the narrow ravine which had afforded him an outlet of escape. It was growing light now fast, as he stood holding his pony’s rein, and he began to follow the track that the Indians must have taken from the head of the depression, now full in view, bearing round to his right until they reached the ravine up which he had come. He tried to make out where that might be, but it was darker there, and for some time, eager as he was to locate the spot for reasons connected with using it again as a means of escape, though in a reverse way, it was some time before he could make out where the gradual descent from the tableland began. But the reason was very simple. It was dim there, the eastern light not touching that part, and for another reason he was not looking far enough away from the edge of the cliffs by about a couple of miles. But as the day broadened the way of escape was revealed in a manner which took his breath away, for there, clearly seen in the pale morning light, was the head of a long line of mounted men, the first half-dozen in full view, the others diminishing in height slowly as they ascended the slope, three-quarters, half, a quarter length, so that the last man’s head alone was visible, and growing slowly as it seemed to be rising from the earth. “After us, old chap,” cried Chris bitterly, to his pony. “Now then, are you rested? It’s going to be another ride for life. “Which way?” he almost groaned, the next moment, as he looked wildly round. “Oh, why did we come to hunt for this wretched gold?” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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