“Let us hurry on—run our horses, and gain the open ground.”
“You might just as well try to reach the moon. I tell you the horse was never yet shod that could outrun perarer fire. Even my good black, that can go two lengths to your one, would never live in such a race.”
“And must we perish thus? Die a horrible death without so much as a struggle for safety?”
“It is gaining rapidly on us! It is coming a perfect whirlwind of flame!” said the now agonized father. “Oh, God, that I should perish thus! Oh, my poor, poor lost daughter!”
“At least, let us make a trial to outrun it,” said another. “Any thing is better than standing idle.”
“Come!” shouted his companions. “Come, we’ll dash through and reach the high ground. What are you thinking of, Waltermyer, standing here?”
“Thinkin’,” blurted out the guide, “how little men like you know of the great perarers.”
“If you are going to stay here and be burned, I am not.”
“Hold!” and the strong hand of Waltermyer was laid on the bridle-rein, effectually checking the course of the steed, that now, like its mates, snuffing the smoke that was fast closing around, stood trembling, snorting and pressing against the restraining bit, with wildly tossed head and flashing eyes.
“What do you mean? Are you mad?”