"So it is—so it is. I can notice it now. I hear the sound of horses hoofs on the prairie. The sound is growing more distinct, too, and they must be coming this way, Tom. Is that so?"
"That's just what's the matter. We'll see 'em all inside of half an hour, unless we turn tail and run."
"Let's do it, then, for there can't be much time to spare."
The hunters showed no disposition to flee from the danger approaching, and Ned began to grow alarmed.
"Why do you stay here?" he asked. "If your horses are so fleet that no one can catch them, what is the use of letting them do it?"
"Don't get scart, my boy," returned Tom Hardynge. "We'll take care of you."
He much preferred that they should all take care of themselves by giving their animals the rein and permitting the Apaches to make no nearer approach. But the scouts were obstinate and remained as motionless as statues. The tramping of myriad feet came nearer and nearer, until the sound partook of one general, thunderous undertone of the most trying character to the lad. It seemed to him so much like suicide—this waiting for a terrible danger as it steadily approached—that he was strongly tempted to start his horse away on his own account.
"Look!" called out Morris, pointing toward the southwest.
Following the direction indicated, the lad saw what appeared to be a heavy cloud lying low down in the horizon, but creeping slowly upward, like the sulphurous vapor that sometimes hovers over a battle field.
"What is it?" he asked, terrified, knowing that it was not the presage of a storm such as sometimes sweeps over the prairies.