"What next?" queried Montgomery. "Shall we leave 'em and ferry ourselves over on the raft?"
"The Injuns are hot after, you can be sure of that," said Clark. "But I for one hate to lose a bunch of hosses as fine as these are."
"Lose 'em we sha'n't," Simon asserted. "I intend to risk my scalp by stayin' with 'em. We've twenty-four hours the start."
"We can't cross 'em; that's sartin, in the state o' the water; hoss or man either can't swim it," Montgomery declared. "I vote to stay with 'em, myself. But we might keep goin' up or down stream, and mebbe throw the beggars off the scent. It'd give us distance, anyway."
"We've twenty-four hours the start," Simon repeated, "and we're dog tired. This wind'll fall at sunset; we'll still have time to spar'. Then by crossin' and travelin' all night we'll be beyond reach, for good and all."
They agreed. They had their rifles and plenty of powder and ball, and each was unwilling to let the others out-brave him. So they lolled about all that day; dozed, laughed and joked. At sunset the wind increased. The water had become so rough that even the raft would be swamped; and to try with the horses was beyond reason.
"Well," proffered Simon, lazily, "we can wait till mornin'. The pesky wind will have blown itself out by then."
And so it did. The river was smooth and peaceful in the sunrise. They hustled to gather their little herd and drive them in—but remembering their fright of yesterday, not an animal would take to the water. They all balked, and scampered. Soon they were scattered on the back trail.
"By cracky, it's no go, boys!" Clark gasped. "Our time's up. I feel Injuns. Let's mount and make off—for I tell you, scalpin' knives are near."
"No, sir! Not a step without those hosses," vowed Simon. "I'll leave not a one. We've 'arned 'em and we'll keep 'em."