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Peril Finders

<h3>Chapter Forty One.</h3> <h4>Playing Frog.</h4> It seemed to Chris as if any attempt at hiding would be folly, for if he could see the enemy where the light was not so clear he felt certain that the Indians must have seen him and the pony at once, standing up plainly against the brightening sky. “I don’t know what to do,” he said to himself, as he sprang upon the pony’s back, and felt better directly. For as the sturdy little animal began to move springily along, fresh vigour seemed to run through the boy’s nerves, and he looked sharply round again. “There must be some way for us to escape,” he cried aloud, “and they shall have a long gallop before they catch us.” He paused for a few moments to look down into the valley and across at the towering up rows of broken openings on the other side of the depression, feeling the while that to stay anywhere near the edge of the precipice was only to hasten his surrender, for the distance from the edge to the level bottom of the valley seemed terrible, so giddy and full of horror for him who fell, that Chris literally wrenched his eyes away, to sweep the horizon till he had made up his mind which was the most open and level part of the tableland to select for the wild gallop to come. “I did hope to have seen some one over yonder,” he muttered bitterly, “but I suppose they are asleep and don’t know what danger I am in. There, off with you, old lad,” he cried aloud, shaking the rein. “No, no—steady; it’s going to be a long ride, and you mustn’t be pumped out for hours to come. That’s better; a nice gentle canter. Well done! How light and easy you do go.” It was as if the beautiful little animal understood its rider’s words. It certainly did his caresses, for it snorted loudly, tossed up its head, and then bending it down with neck finely arched, it progressed in bound after bound as if it were a joy to be cantering along that high level ground in the pure elastic air. Chris gave his mount another pat or two upon the neck, and then settling himself in his saddle he turned his head to watch the Indians. In an instant he had learned that not only could they see him but they had grasped his intention as to the way in which he sought to escape. For directly after, three of them had darted out of the line and gone off at full speed, opening out the while, with the evident intention of cutting off their victim. Chris was ready, and after riding a little way so as to give the enemy time, he suddenly bore upon his rein and changed his course. But as soon as this was seen, three more of the Indians started off to turn him away from the open country in that direction. Again Chris changed, each time increasing his speed; but in this, and in the efforts which followed, the Indians grasped his ideas, and they galloped out to cut him off, till after trial following trial the fugitive found that his efforts to escape in that way could only result in tiring out his mustang, and so cleverly had the enemy manoeuvred that they had cast, as it were, a line round him, a semicircle whose chord was the edge of the depression, towards which when it pleased them and they felt certain, they could press him back, gradually contracting their line till he was completely in their power. Chris drew rein to sit watching the enemy for a few minutes, and breathing his mount while he decided as to what he must do. The decision was soon arrived at. There was the open country with Indians dotted at intervals ready to close in, but all the same that was the only way of escape, for fully twenty sat like statues upon their horses across the open part which gradually contracted to form the jaws of the ravine down which he would have liked to turn. “I must do it,” thought the boy, and his mind was made up. The open country must be reached, and he prepared for action by taking his revolver out of the holster and holding it ready for a shot; then gathering up his reins and pointing his pony’s head for the very centre of the line which hemmed him in, he went off at a canter straight for the open, picking out one man as his guide. The result was exactly what he expected, for as he increased his pace the Indians to his right and left came galloping, evidently meaning to reach him just as he gained their line. Chris urged his pony on at full gallop, and there was a race, the enemy sweeping over the short level grass, concentrating themselves as it were upon their quarry, and beginning to yell and shout as they tore along. But Chris’s movement was only a feint, and the next minute he had wheeled round, changing his direction to one parallel with the edge of the cliff, tearing along so that two out of three of the Indians dashed past him, while as he neared the other, who was right in his way, he raised his revolver, waited till he was as close as he was likely to get, and then at intervals fired three shots, the little bullets whizzing through the clear morning air, and the last, to the boy’s surprise and delight, finding its billet with a faint ping. He had only expected to startle and perhaps make his enemy turn tail, but to his utter astonishment the last man’s pony stopped short, sending the rider over its head, and Chris tore on, with the intention of passing through the line. It was a furious race now, for at intervals quite a dozen of the enemy were trailing along now to cut him off, and victory was bound to be to the most swift. But the enemy were clever enough not to trust to the result of this race, for several hundreds of yards out another line of horsemen was tearing over the plain, whirling their bows and spears over their heads and using them mercilessly upon the flanks of their steeds. It was a good race, during which Chris’s mustang proved its speed, going over the grass ventre à terre, as the French call it, and, to his delight, the boy was able to pass round the farthest horseman, who strove vainly to head him, as he made now for the open plain. The effort was vain, for the second line was closing-in at full gallop, and seeing the hopelessness of repeating his first feint, Chris now urged his pony on again parallel with the edge of the cliff, with some idea of riding round the end of the great depression so as to get to the far side, and then, trusting to the speed of his brave little mount, escaping there. But it was of no use. At first he began to feel hopeful, for he was going fast and getting well on towards the head of the valley, which after a gallop he finally reached. The open country beyond was before him, he was bending down again to reach forward and pat the pony’s neck, shouting cheering words to it the while, when he suddenly became aware of the fact that right in front, and coming from quite a different direction, there was another party of the enemy, which no sooner caught sight of the chase than they increased their pace, spreading out into a line the while. Chris began to draw rein, slowly checking his pony’s gallop to a canter, and then easing it down to a walk, for he had been gradually edged more and more towards the rim of the great depression, till there was not more than a hundred yards between him and the precipitous descent, which presented an effectual barrier to all escape there. “They’re too much for me,” panted the boy breathlessly, and quite innocent of this naïve way of expressing himself, for it never occurred to him how pitifully small his chances of escape had been in pitting himself, a mere lad, against nearly a hundred of the active warriors of the plain. “But I’m not done yet,” he muttered, as he pressed his pony’s sides and cantered on towards where in one spot the smooth level gave place to a rugged patch where the ground was broken up and strewed with stones right to the edge of the precipice for about a hundred yards, before it became smooth and level again. As near as he could guess he was leaving behind the spot where the Indians had been first seen; but that was only a passing thought. He was, as he had said, not done yet, and in those stones he saw shelter for himself and his mount while he made a stand for a time in the hope that aid of some kind might come, or some turn of the tide occur in his favour. Full of this idea, he cantered on, and reached the rugged patch of broken ground, his sinking spirits rising as he drew near and found that it would give more shelter than he had hoped for, since no horseman could charge through it; in fact, as he reached the spot he was obliged to let the pony pick its way in and out among pieces of rock eight or ten feet high which looked as if they had been turned up, while among them there were shallow, shady rifts, and in one case quite a gash going deeply down and cutting right through the edge of the depression, being evidently the work of water that at some period or other in the world’s history had run over the edge of the precipice in a cascade. But Chris was in no humour then for calculating the causes of this appearance, this roughening of the level plain. He did wonder that he had not noticed it from below, but there was no occasion for wonder, since the stones stood too far back from the edge to be visible to people four or five hundred feet below. He only saw in the chaotic patch a place of sanctuary, and rode right in, to draw rein with his back to one of the largest blocks of stone, while others were between him and the advancing enemy. It was the merest chance, but a long search could not have discovered a better spot for the boy’s temporary protection, and calling up the little knowledge he had picked up of the Indians’ nature and habits, he set his teeth as he let the rein fall upon his mount’s neck, passed the sling of his rifle over his head, and drew round and opened his cartridge-pouch. “Stand still, old chap,” he said, and for the moment he thought of dismounting, resting the barrel of his piece across the saddle, and firing from there; but the thought came that at any moment he might have to seize the opportunity to gallop off, while the minute expended in changing his position and mounting might make all the difference between escape and capture. So he sat fast and waited, watching the approach of the Indians, who did not ride in at once, but treated him, after their experience of seeing one of their companions go down, as a dangerous enemy, one to be taken unawares, or after being rendered helpless, while for his part Chris sat firm as a rock, feeling fear, of course, but strung up by the sensation of being suddenly called upon to fight for his life. But he felt that it would not be long before the enemy took action, while there were moments when his heart seemed to sink with the heaviness of despair, as he fully realised how little he could do against so many. He was not kept waiting long after the Indians had closed up, for they stopped about a hundred yards away and then started off as if about to turn their horses in an elliptical course, starting off and riding round, each man as he passed the lad at a distance of some fifty yards uttering a piercing war-whoop, with the evident intention of alarming their victim, who however sat waiting patiently and apparently not alarmed in the least. These shouts were given as the whole body passed round and within range, and lasted till every man had shouted his defiant cry, while the lad sat fast holding his fire. But at the second career something else was evidently on the way, and if possible Chris set his teeth harder, for as one man went by at a canter he leaned over towards his left, raised the bow he held quickly with an arrow fitted on the string, and loosed it with a twang! It was aimed pretty straight, and loosed off just as the man was clearing one of the blocks of stone, against whose side the arrow glanced and then whizzed by Chris’s head and flew over the edge of the precipice, to disappear in the depths below. Chris drew a deep sigh and raised his rifle, for it seemed to him that it was nearing the time when he must use it. For the Indians were riding on in the ellipse, and another man fitted an arrow to his bowstring, and as he rode by loosed it off. A far better shot. There was no striking against rock for it to glance off, for the next moment it struck with a heavy thud in the pommel of Chris’s saddle, and quivered there till the lad snapped it off. A loud yell rose from the cantering Indians as they saw the success of the shot, and as one of the next rode by he sent his arrow whizzing by the boy’s head, making him start nervously and raise his rifle to his shoulder; but nearly a minute elapsed before he fired and lowered his piece to thrust in a fresh cartridge, sitting half-hidden by the smoke, which screened him from his enemies at the same time that it hindered him from seeing the effect of his shot. As the smoke rose it was only to show the party cantering by at an easy pace and looking as if they were engaged in some trial of skill, and in spite of the peril in which he was placed Chris’s thoughts played a strange prank, suggesting to him the old fable of the boys and the frogs. “What is sport to you is death to us!” he muttered bitterly, and aiming more carefully now, well in advance of one of the Indians, he drew trigger and wrenched himself on one side to avoid the smoke and watch the effect. The act worked in a two-edged way, for another arrow darted by him with a buzz like that of an angry hornet, at the same time that a yell arose, for he saw the man at whom he had fired trying to scramble up from the earth and falling again, while his horse after throwing its rider had reared up, to stand pawing the air frantically for some moments, before coming down on all fours, and then tearing off at full gallop as hard as it could set hoof to ground. There was a furious yell of rage at this, and a feeling of satisfaction thrilled through the boy’s frame as his busy fingers opened and closed the breech of his rifle. But the triumph was only short-lived. Whizz—thud, another arrow was loosed off from the string, striking the pony low-down in the chest. The poor animal uttered a groan that was almost human in its tones, as it plunged and wrenched itself round, to stand biting at the place where the arrow stuck out, snapping it in two, and nearly unseating its rider, as well as robbing him of the power to fire again, for his side was now towards the foe. Worse still, the pony’s change of front presented the whole flank to the enemy, who responded with a yell of triumph by sending in a couple more arrows, both of which hit. In an instant the poor brute was erect upon its hind-legs, overbalancing itself and falling backward, Chris saving himself by throwing himself sidewise, while as he scrambled up, holding on tightly to his rifle, he turned to fire, fully expecting that the Indians would dash in; but the muzzle of the presented rifle was too formidable for them—they knew its power, and they kept on cantering along, yelling with delight. Meanwhile the pony was kicking wildly and tearing at the turf as it lay upon its side. Chris did not attempt to fire, but obeyed the impulse of trying to get his mount to rise again, with the full intent of flinging himself upon its back and galloping in desperation through the enemy. Two arrows whizzed by him, for his motion, consequent upon the pony’s struggles and his efforts to avoid the poor brute’s hoofs, was so rapid that he formed a bad butt for a galloping horseman, and so escaped for the moment. “Up—up, old chap!” he shouted, as he caught hold of the rein, and in obedience to the familiar voice the brave little beast made a desperate effort, and gained its feet, uttering an almost human shriek. Then with a bound it threw up its head, nearly snatching the rein from its master’s hand, plunging and kicking wildly. “Keep still—wo-ho!—quiet!” cried Chris; but in vain, and doubtless fortunately for himself, for he was dragged here and there by the frantic steed, quite ignorant of the direction the pony’s struggles led him, but always just out of the course of arrow after arrow, some of which flew wide, while others nearly grazed him, but not one hit. The thought that dominated all others now in Chris’s mind was that he must let go. He had nearly been down twice; then he had stumbled over one of the stones which lay thickly here and there; the pony’s hoof grazed his side as, mad with rage and pain, it tore away from him, giving a sudden snatch in its effort to get free from the rein Chris had twisted round his hand. For the moment the boy felt that his shoulder was dislocated; then he knew that he had lost his foothold and was being dragged over the ground; and the very next moment, as a terrific yell smote his ears, it seemed to be cut off short and to sound distant, for he was falling through the air, to strike somewhere heavily, roll over and feel that he was gliding down amidst stones and loosened earth. Then he was checked again, hanging as it were for a moment before commencing another slide shorter than the last, for he was brought up with a sharp shock against a stone, to which he clung, just as he heard a dull crash somewhere beneath him, and the sound of hoofs tearing at stones, which kept on clattering down in an avalanche, to keep up a loud, heavy, rattling noise, but all far below. In spite of the horrible excitement and confusion, Chris’s brain was clear enough. His left arm felt useless, and his shoulder throbbed, but he was quite conscious that his head was not injured, and perfectly well aware that he had stuck to the rein till the unfortunate pony had dragged him to the edge of the precipice at the head of the valley, and then, mad with pain, gone over, to be lying somewhere below. But not dead yet, for every now and then the sound of the poor beast’s hoofs came up, striking at loose stones and sending more and more clattering down into the valley. And then for a few moments the boy turned sick, and loosing his hold of his gun, which lay half under him, he clung with all his might to the stone which had checked his further downward progress; for the new thought which had attacked him was that if he did not hold fast he would fall—fall—down the dizzy height into the black darkness of the end. As he lay there clinging with all his might he was conscious of a wild gabble of voices in an unknown tongue, somewhere above him, and then as if out of a mist a stone fell, struck that to which he clung, and glanced off, to be heard no more. But another small stone came rattling down, in company with some earth, and opening his eyes he found himself staring upward at the edge of the cliff and the narrow, earthy and stony cleft down which he had fallen, recognising it even then as the probable bed of the torrent, that had at some time or other flowed over the riven cliff to plunge into the depths below. The loud talking right above cleared away the last of the giddy feeling of faintness, but only for him to be face to face with a fresh horror, for all at once another arrow whizzed by, but yards away, and looking up he could see the head of an Indian whose eyes glistened in the sunshine as he peered down as if to look for the effect of the arrow he had dispatched. Then another head appeared, and the talking increased. Men were shouting, and apparently the shouts were orders, and more heads appeared. Stones and earth crumbled down too, and another arrow whizzed by and struck somewhere near; but it did not seem to come straight down, while another sent directly after evidently came from away to his right. “They can’t reach over far enough to get a good aim at me,” thought Chris then, with a strange sense of resignation to the inevitable making him feel calm and patient in his utter helplessness. He could hear the pony strike out again and the stones the poor beast dislodged go clattering down, and then there was a peculiar rushing sound, and small broken pieces and earth began to fall near him, making him strain his eyes once more to see whence they came. He knew the next moment, for a shout reached his ears, coming from above, and the legs of an Indian passed into sight, then the whole of his body, as more stones crumbled down, and as the boy watched he made out plainly enough that one of his enemies had lowered himself down, crept sidewise, and had just reached a ledge far above him and a little on one side, where he was busy settling himself in a sitting position before drawing his bow from his back and proceeding to fit an arrow to the string. The look of triumph in the man’s painted face was clear enough in the bright morning air. His teeth glistened as he smiled, and Chris clung still not daring to move, but ready to smile as the thought occurred even then, Why shouldn’t I let go and fall, so as to disappoint this malicious savage of his attempt to slay? But it was all like a terrible waking dream to Chris, who lay there conscious of the fact that several of the man’s comrades were peering over the edge of the cliff watching his efforts and now waiting to see the successful shot. It seemed a long time after the nock of the arrow was fitted to the sinew string before, setting his feet against a stone and his back firmly against the perpendicular at the back of the shelf he had gained, the Indian fixed his eyes on his victim and deliberately drew the arrow to the head. But the effort made in a very critical position caused one foot to slip a little, and slackening the string, the savage shifted his foot, and as soon as he had satisfied himself that he was not likely to slip and plunge headlong down into the valley, he drew the arrow to the head again. But once more, as with starting eyes Chris watched for the loosing of the shaft, there was a check in the proceedings. For, after lying quite still for some minutes, the pony uttered a loud neigh and began to kick and paw at the stones amongst which he lay, sending a fresh avalanche down into the valley. The Indian started like a wild beast at the sound, and his sharp eyes were turned to gaze downward as he reached out a little. But apparently satisfied that the sound was not the prelude to an attack, he once more settled himself down and—quickly now, in response to a shout from the Indians above him—drew his arrow to the head. Chris tried to close his eyes, but his nerves and muscles were rigid as the bow twanged, and he noted that the arrow passed like a flash, high up above his head, as he saw the savage spring up standing on the ledge, clap his hand to his breast, and curving himself backward as his knees bent, fall outward and come down to strike the side of the cliff a couple of dozen yards away, level with the stone to which his intended victim clung. Then he bounded off to descend swiftly, drawing himself up like a ball, and pass out of sight, but only to fall with a sickening crash not far from where a little puff of smoke had darted out in the bottom of the valley, to be followed by a sharp crack which echoed from the cliffs and re-echoed twice, to mingle with a chorus of yells from the edge where a score of Indians stood peering over to try and see where their companion had struck. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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