An hour later, and, seated upon a but half-tamed steed, with a painted warrior at either side, she was hurried forward toward the rocky cañon known as the South Pass.
CHAPTER VI.
WATER!
With the long mane of his swift and sure-footed steed streaming in the wind, his tall form seeming a part of the horse he bestrode, Waltermyer led the way, followed by the anxious father and his men. There was no drawing of rein or slacking of speed—no breathing of horses or resting of men. It was to be with them a race for life, and every minute was dear and important as weeks of common time. But what course should they take? This was now the question, and Miles Morse, as he spurred his horse forward in the almost vain task of equaling the pace of Waltermyer, felt that all was uncertainty. But not so the border man. Blind trails were to him pleasant explorations. He was ever on the watch, his wits sharpened by constant exercise and constant danger. The wild excitement of a chase like that was far more to his liking than the winding horn and the baying of hounds ever was to hunter. Mot a single thought had he of failure. True he might be too late to save the girl from the clutches of her enemies, but not too late to make them pay the penalty of their dastard deed.
“Stranger,” he said, suddenly reining in his horse upon the summit of a knoll that enabled him to overlook the country for miles, “Stranger, did you say the gal was pooty?”
“More than that—most people call her beautiful.”
“And the Mormon—Thomas—has seen her?”
“Yes; I remember that was his name.”
“To be sure it was. Kirk Waltermyer ain’t a fool, by a long shot. When he sees a doe wandering alone on the perarer, he knows from what thicket the cayotes will start in pursuit.”
“But we waste time.”
“Better take breath now than have our horses without wind when the time comes for them to go. And she was a pooty gal, was she?”