CHAPTER VIII.
PRAIRIE FIRE.
Not long, although the scene around them was verdant and peculiarly enticing after their severe struggle for life, did Waltermyer allow his men to rest, for he knew well that the enemy he was following would make no pause, and their steeds, prairie-born and trained, wild and hardy as those they carried, would make light of what to them had been a sore trial. He knew, also, that night would put an almost effectual barrier to their progress. As soon, therefore, as he thought the horses sufficiently refreshed for travel, he gave the requisite order, and, seconded by the poor, anxious father, found but little difficulty in forcing obedience.
“Up, men!” he shouted. “Ef your horses hain’t rested by this time, ’tain’t no use tryin’ to go on.”
“Which way are we to proceed, Waltermyer? No more prairie-work, I trust.”
“No; we’ve done with that kinder thing, but we shall have to cross the sloo again, before we can strike the trail. It ain’t very wide. Then we’ll skirt along it, until we strike the p’int thar whar the nose of the mounting runs inter the perarer.”
“Can we not keep on this side?”
“Onpossible; thar isn’t footin’ for a crawlin’ snake, and I reckon them things can go almost onyw’ares. Ef you’ve a mind to try it you can, but Kirk Waltermyer hasn’t parted company with his senses yet, by a long shot.”
“Of course we trust entirely to your guidance. Lead on and we will follow.”
“Ef you only could foller as I could lead, we’d soon overhaul the red rascals. But it ain’t no use in tryin’ to make such brutes as yours keep up with a horse! Stranger, I told you before there wasn’t but one on the perarer that could, and he is—”
“What sound is that?”