“Come, Star! Come, good horse!” and his manly voice rang above even the roar of the swollen waters.
But spur, and rein, and voice were all needed now, and when the noble steed reached the opposite bank, it required all his strength and agility to mount it. His fore-feet rest upon the shelving, rocky brink—he rears for the leap—he rises light as a bird on the wing—his hindermost hoofs strike upon the bank, but the insecure footing gives way—he trembles like a strong man, struggling against a giant in the wrestling ring.
“Come, Star! Once more, my boy!”
A giant effort, and a giant leap, and he stands trembling on secure ground, with the water dripping from his glossy hide, and the snowy spot in his forehead gleaming from amid its blackness—a very blazing star, looking out from a storm.
A moment given only to rest, to the recuperation of the vast energy he has just exhibited, and again that tireless horse takes the upward trail, without a word or sign from his master. But his steps are checked. Not that he needed rest—not that Waltermyer, kind-hearted as he was, and even more than tender of his favorite steed, had become doubtful of his strength; but another vision had crossed his track—a ghost appeared before him.
“By—!” but he strangled the oath, and beat back the impious word, before it could find utterance. “Ef it’s not the same thing I saw down below! And it is—hold! don’t jump, for your life! Stop, I say! don’t do it here!” and his horse sprung, as if gifted with wings, beneath the sharp rowel.
Even in the uncertain light, his well-trained eye had discovered that it was a human being, standing on a rocky shelf full a hundred feet above him, and preparing to spring from the fearful height. Who it was he did not pause to think. Enough for him to know that some fellow-being was in trouble, and bent on self-destruction. In as many seconds the swift horse stood on the shelf of rock, and Waltermyer leaped from its back while in full career.
It was an Indian woman, intent on leaping down that fearful height. Her form was bent, and her arms thrown wildly upward for the terrible leap, when the frontiersman interposed.
“By—!” once more the oath was unuttered.
“Yes, it’s a woman!” he continued, as the form became limp, and hung heavily in his arms. “A woman, as I live! May be it’s—” he could not speak the name, but, turning up the face tenderly, saw in the dim light, not the white girl he was searching for, but the features of Waupee, the poor heart-broken wife.