A Race for—Death.
When Vipan recovered consciousness he found himself unable to stir. A lariat rope was tightly coiled around him from head to foot, binding his arms to his sides, and rendering him as helpless as a log.
He tried to move, but an acute pain shooting through his head seemed to crush him again, and he half closed his eyes, stunned and confused.
A dark face peered into his. A tall Indian was bending over him. In the grim painted lineaments he recognised, to his astonishment, the countenance of War Wolf.
“Ha, Golden Face. You feel better now? Good! We will start.”
He made no reply. Glancing around him, he noted that the warriors were making their preparations to move. The ponies, which had been grazing all ready saddled, were caught; and at a sign from War Wolf two of the Indians proceeded to loosen the lariat rope in such wise as to allow him the use of his legs.
“Now, mount,” said one of them, as his fellow led a pony alongside of the captive, who surveyed his steed designate with a dubious air.
“That sheep isn’t up to my weight,” he said.
“He will carry you as far as needful,” was the reply, ominous in its grim brevity. “Quick, mount.”
As he turned to obey a wild thought rushed through the adventurer’s mind. Could he not seize the opportunity to make a dash for it? His wily guards must have read his thoughts, for, catching his eye, they shook their heads with a ferocious grin. Then with a raw hide thong they secured their prisoner’s feet beneath the horse’s belly, and one of them winding the end of the lariat rope which served as a bridle round his hand, the band started.