The Peril Finders

by George Manville Fenn

Nearer and nearer they sounded—those savage yells—and once more Chris leaned forward to caress the mustang’s neck.

“Oh, go on, old lad,” he whispered; “faster, faster, or they’ll have us.” And then the whisper, unheard in the turmoil of yell and echo, became a cry of agony embodied in the simple homely words which told of the boy’s suffering and the despair now gripping him by the heart, for out of the black darkness came a fresh burst of yells that were horrible in their intensity, and full of triumph in their tones, as if those who shouted were certain of their quarry. Chris’s heart sank low indeed, for the end seemed to have come. Involuntarily now both hands clutched and clung to the pony’s shaggy mane.

For just as it seemed to the fugitive that the foremost horses were upon him and their riders’ hands were outstretched to tear him from his saddle, the mustang made a sudden swerve and what seemed to be a slip.

But it did not go down, recovering itself in an instant, but only to drop from a furious gallop into a laboured canter which became directly after a painful walk, while Chris felt as if he had received a blow which had stupefied him, deadening his hearing so that he only heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs and the yelling of the riders as if from a distance, growing fainter and fainter till they died away.

“What’s the matter? Am I hurt?” panted the boy, as, passing the rein over his wrist, he clapped his hands to his temples, sitting upright and swaying with his pony’s movements the while.

The only answer was the hoarse panting of the pony as, evidently striving hard, it kept on at the walk, full of effort, and Chris began to grasp the fact that in the swerve made by the plucky little steed the Indians had swept by at full gallop, while, unnoticed in the darkness, the pony had turned up the side gorge which his master had passed in coming and passed again upon his return, being fast asleep, when the mustang had stopped to sniff and hesitate, and finally chosen the way which led them right into the Indians’ camp.

“Why, they’ve missed us,” exclaimed Chris, whose heart began now to beat wildly in the fresh excitement of the moment. For his head was still confused, and he was trying hard to make out how it was that the Indians had managed to pass him earlier in the evening, even now being too much puzzled to make out the mistake that had occurred.

For in the great darkness of the narrow gorge they were ascending the boy’s brain seemed to participate. He could not grasp that by this narrow descent the Indians had gained the gulch directly after he had passed to take up his position as scout. In short, all he had room for in his head then was the one great thought, that for the present, thanks to the pony, he had escaped, and for the minor piece of easily-grasped knowledge that the panting beast was toiling—literally climbing up a very steep and narrow rift in the side of the cliff; where he was going and what was to be the end, he could not tell.

After a time the efforts of the pony grew less; it ceased to drag itself up as if forcing its hoofs into the crevices of the rock to climb foot by foot. The way was still steep, and the darkness so thick that for a time Chris could make out nothing of the sides; but in time the strip of purply-black sky gemmed with stars became wider, the edges not so ragged, and all at once it struck the boy that they were not climbing over stones, for the sound of the hoofs was deadened.

This lasted for a time, during which Chris began to breathe more easily as he looked about him and questioned himself as to where he was, while little by little the facts came to fit themselves together like the pieces of a puzzle which now seemed very simple, so that it only needed a fresh act on the part of the mustang to make all clear.