As the night approached, their hopes increased. Darkness was closing in when they reached the bank of the Big Cheyenne, and, for the first time since leaving the arroya, they drew rein.
"This is better than I dared expect," said the father in high spirits, and seemingly strengthened by his sharp ride through the cutting cold; "I can hardly understand it."
"I suspect that Wolf Ear made a blunder."
"In what way?"
"He did not think we should leave the gully before night; he went back and told the rest. They dared not attack us where we had some show to defend ourselves; they will not discover our flight until it is too late."
While there seemed reason in this belief, it did not fully satisfy the father. It was not in keeping with the subtlety of the American Indian that they should allow a party of whites to ride directly away from them, when they were at their mercy. Any one of the hostiles, by climbing the side of the arroya, was sure to see the little company of fugitives emerge therefrom, and it was inconceivable that they should not take that simple precaution.
"There is something beyond all this which has not yet appeared," he said; "neither Wolf Ear nor his companions are fools."
The river swept by in the gathering darkness at their feet. The current was not swift, but pieces of ice lay against the shores, and floated past in the middle of the stream. The opposite bank could hardly be seen in the gloom.
"Must we cross that?" asked Mrs. Kingsland, as the horses halted on the margin of the icy waters.
"Yes," replied her husband, "and twenty miles further we must cross the White, to say nothing of smaller streams, which may be as deep and more difficult. Pine Ridge lies fifty miles away, and there's no going round any of the water."