The smoke column was some three miles yonder. They pushed for it, at a trot—thought that they could see the line itself, and Terry was just saying: “Cheyenne can’t be very far, either,” when George’s voice broke in a little gasp.
“Terry! Injuns! Look quick. We’ll never make it.”
Terry looked. Quartering on their right, ahead, out from a low place in the range of bare hills, there, the Indians were coming, at last. There was no mistake about that. They were less than a mile away—they rode like Indians, they acted like Indians, and Indians they were, charging full tilt; twenty-five or thirty of them.
Terry’s heart surged into his throat. A wave of sickness swept through him. He hauled on the rein.
“Run for it, George. Never mind the grade—they’ll cut us off. But we’ll beat ’em to Cheyenne. Got to.”
“Sure have. They may quit.”
“We can fort and fight ’em off, till help comes. Blame the luck! Major Hurd’s counting on us.”
“Never say die till you’re dead,” panted George. “Maybe Cheyenne isn’t far. Maybe a graders’ camp has seen.”
They tore on at best speed. Terry glanced aside, to measure distance again. The sky in the east had cleared, and the sun was just launching his first level rays across the sage. They brought the Indians into plainer view. The gap between the two, pursuers and pursued, had narrowed. Those were good ponies as well as good riders, and the horses were stiff and sluggish.
“Dog-gone! They’re closing in on us,” George remarked, as if trying to speak matter-of-fact. George never got rattled, in a pinch. He might be depended upon, to the last inch.