"To the horses! Come on, Con!" was the instant answer. And the three went bounding back along the bank, pursued and spurred by the savage shouting from below, but, as God so willed it, without so much as a glance. Over the lair of the picket they flew, with only the orders "Come on!" Away over the elastic "bench" they dashed, hot-foot for the bivouac, and Drum, the veteran, saw them coming like the wind, and read their tale and the instant need. "Saddle up!" he shouted, while the group was still afar. "Jump for it, men! There's not a second to lose!"
Up from their blankets sprang the few sleepers. In from their stations scurried the outlying sentries. Rattle went the bits between the teeth of the excited chargers. Slap went the saddles on the broad, glossy backs. There was hurry and rush and swift leaping for arms, the snap of cinchas, the snorting of steeds, yet not a word was spoken until the low order to lead into line; and straightway old Drum marshalled his men, silent, yet with hearts beating like hammers, and then down their front rode their youthful lieutenant, a stranger to all but a month agone, yet now they lived on his slightest word. Oh, what thoughts—what thoughts of mother and home, and the brave old days of boyhood and the Point, had been winging through his brain during the long hours of the day! But now—now there was no time for thought! There was time only for action; for a fellow-man lay in deadly peril, in dreadful torment, only a short mile away.
"Not a sound—not a shot, men," he ordered, as the quivering line reined up before him. "Follow our lead, stampede the ponies, and charge through the crowd; then rally quick as you can."
Splash! drove the leaders into the shallows. Breast deep, foaming, they spurred through the stream, the troop plunging after, with carbines slung over their shoulders. Out on the opposite bank and up to the "bench" they swarmed, then veered away northward over the resounding level, Geordie and Connell, classmates and chums, bounding away in advance. No danger of Indian eyes or ears, no dread of hindering shot or ambush. When the pale-face writhes at the torture stake, even Indian vedette forgets his trade for the lust of such luxury as witnessing that. Up into line with the leading four galloped the chargers in rear. On toward the leaping flames in the grove led those lithe young riders ahead. Mad with excitement, some nervous new horses snatched at their bits and burst from the line, and Geordie, glancing back, saw them gaining in spite of restraining hand. What mattered it, anyhow? Every second was precious. The ground was open, the herded ponies less than half a mile forward, and already alarmed. "Let 'em go!" he shouted, with a wave of the revolver over his head. "Straight through the herd, men. Ch-a-a-a-rge!"
"'STRAIGHT THROUGH THE HERD, MEN. CH-A-A-A-RGE!'"[ToList]
Then up went a cheer that rang over the valley, shrill above the thunder of hoofs, the shriek and scream of terrified squaws, the shouts of astonished braves. Away like the wind went the streaming swarm of ponies, in mad flight for the north! Away like scatter-brained rabbits, darting hither and thither in the firelight, rushing madly to shelter, leaping from the "bench" to the sandy bottom below, scurrying in wild panic anywhere, everywhere, went warriors, women, and children; for, close on the heels of the vanishing herd came unknown numbers of blue-coated, brave—hearted, tumultuous riders, tearing through camp like a human tornado, turning the scene of the late revel into a turmoil of woe. Vain the few shots aimed in haste and excitement. Vain the rallying cry of a fighting chief. A blow from the butt of Ned Connell's revolver sprawled him headlong over a prostrate form—a white man "staked out" in front of the fire, swooning from mingled misery, weakness, and joy.
It was Pearson, the missing "partner," captured alive by the Sioux, doomed to die by slow torture, in revenge for a young warrior shot down by the gun-traders in a senseless squabble two nights before.
And the troop had saved him and his fellow-captive, the cook, without so much as firing a shot.