A sharp twinge in the back thrilled him.
“I’m hit!” he exclaimed faintly; “dey hab sarbed me de same way dat dey sarbed dat Express Rider; dey’re after my scalp but I’ll stick in de saddle till I reaches Mr. Shagbark, ef I doan’ die afore.”
In the ecstasy of terror he glanced down his breast, for he had partly straightened up a moment before he felt the pain. He expected to see the pointed bit of flint sticking out in front, but did not.
“It didn’t go cl’ar frough, but it’s jest as bad; I can’t lib more dan a few minutes; go it, Jilk!”
Once again the tremulous whoops sounded above the clumping of the ponies’ hoofs, but they came this time from the rear. Except for that sudden twinge in his back, Jethro would have felt a renewal of hope. At the same time he could not be certain he would not run into a score or more of his enemies.
A half mile was speedily passed and not another throbbing yell reached his ears. Jethro sat upright in his saddle, and a few minutes later shifting the two guns to his left hand, reached his right around to grasp the shaft of the arrow and draw it forth.
To his amazement he could not feel it. He was able to grope with the hand, from between his shoulder blades to the saddle. Especially the spot where the twinge had been felt was examined. He touched naught but the smooth back of his coat.
“It must have drapped out,” he muttered with a wild hope; “dat’s mighty qu’ar,” he added; “de pain ain’t dere any more but has gone inter de big toe ob my right fut.”
In his whimsical mood he glanced down at the shoe in the stirrup. Nothing was the matter there.
“I hain’t been hit at all!” he exclaimed with a new thrill this time of unalloyed bliss; “it must hab been de rheumatics dat shifted to my toe.”