The quick glances to the right and left of the gorge failed to show him any one of his enemies, but he knew they were there. Had there been any doubt as to that it vanished the next moment when an arrow flitted like a swallow between him and the streaming forelock of his pony.
“I’m a goner!” he wailed, throwing himself forward so as to be as flat as possible on the back of his animal.
He reflected that the missile had passed in front of him, so that it looked as if he were placing himself nearer the path of other similar missiles. But he was going all the time, and the next one would possibly go behind, or more likely through him.
It will be remembered that he had a loaded rifle in either hand. Had he carried out his first idea and dashed for refuge behind one of the nearest boulders, he ought to have been able to put up a good fight and stand off the redskins until the sounds of firing brought Shagbark and his friends to his relief, but Jethro lacked courage to try the scheme.
So long as the authors of the yells did not appear in the gorge in front, he had a faint hope of being able to get through to camp. It must be done, however, by forcing the speed, which he proceeded to do.
Aside from the horror of being struck, was the dread that Jilk might be disabled. If that calamity should befall, Jethro would then skurry to some hiding place and make the best defense he could. So long as his pony was capable of running, he was not spared.
Firebug was naturally fleeter than Jilk, and having no burden to carry, easily held his place some yards in front. He was traveling with a speed which caused mane and tail to stream out, while the loose stirrups dangled and flew about against the ribs of the animal.
Jethro’s hopes rose with every rod passed.
“Dem sarpents hain’t got any critters dat can trabel like ourn, and bime by, Jilk, we’ll be out ob de woods ef dere ain’t more ob ’em waiting down de gorge—”