Who were they? Surely they were mounted men, surely they were not her friends; who could they be? They were coming, miles away, directly toward her.
The truth flashed upon her, and her heart sunk like lead. Sitting quietly in her saddle, she stared at them, drawing nearer every minute. Then she became aroused. Wheeling suddenly she plied the whip, and the wiry mustang, now somewhat refreshed, sprung away at a long, steady gallop, and the blots behind scattered, collected again, then rose and fell faster and shorter. The chase had commenced—she was pursued by Indians.
It was now sunset, as nearly as she could judge, and the cloudy sky overhead promised a brief, dark twilight, to be succeeded by a dark, murky night. The rainy season was now drawing near, and for aught she knew the clouds above might be the “advance-guard.” This, at least, was in her favor.
Kissie was like her father—impulsive but cool. Looking back, she calculated the distance between her and the flying savages. It was nearly four miles. She looked at the sky and calculated that darkness would fall in less than an hour.
“They will have to ride like the wind to overtake Dimple in an hour,” she said, with a small degree of hope. “Till then, Dimple, fly; in an hour we may be safe for the present.”
The mustang, as if cognizant of the importance of speed, tossed his plucky head, then bending it down, “reached” like a quarter-horse; his sensitive nose had warned him of the proximity of his former hated foe—the red-man. Running without the incentive of whip or spur, he stretched away; and behind came a dozen and one Apaches, grim and resolved; they were on the war-trail.
At that hour a flock of vultures wheeling above, high in the zenith, looked down upon a strange scene—at least for that usually deserted plain. Directly beneath were a flying maiden and galloping Indians—the latter in hot pursuit of the former; both mounted on fleet horses, both riding at full speed.
A few miles to the west a solitary horseman was pursuing his way northward, at a slow gallop. He was a Mexican—Pedro Felipe. At the rate, and in the direction the maiden was riding, it would not be long ere she would meet him—she riding north-westerly. Directly south and nearly fifteen miles behind Pedro, rode a dark, ugly-looking man on a black horse; and though the Mexican had left no visible trail, this mysterious rider was following him, directly in his very tracks. Riders on the savage-infested, weird plains generally look sharply in every direction to avoid their dreaded foes; they generally, if alone, keep close to timbered tracts; but this rider never gazed to the right, left, or behind him—only keeping his gaze fixed toward the Land of Silence.
In a south-easterly direction from him was a train encamped on the Gila, for the night. All the work had been finished. The horses were lariated at hand; the rude kettle was boiling merrily; the cook was swearing and grumbling, as usual; but all was not quiet.
Ever and anon one of the several men lying lazily about would rise, and shading his eyes, peer toward the north-east, as if in search of something.