Bart was getting well ahead, but not in the best direction. He had, however, no occasion to fear present pursuit, for the
knot of dismounted Indians whom he had seen close under the rock when the lightning fell lay crushed and mangled amongst a pile of shattered rocks which the electric discharge had sent thundering down, while as Bart was cantering on, full of surmises, where not a drop of rain was falling, the storm seemed to have chosen the mountain as its gathering point, around which the lightning was playing, the thunder crashing, and the water streaming down, so that in places regular cascades swept over the sides of the rock, and tore away like little rivers over the plain.
For the time being, then, Bart had nothing to fear from these unfortunate Apachés; but, as the storm lulled, and another little body of dismounted Indians crept cautiously up to the fallen rocks, their object being to surprise the guards at the gateway, they learned from one of their dying friends of the appearance of the young chief upon his little black horse, and that he had gone right off over the plain.
The sequel to this was that the dead and dying soon were borne away, and a party was formed at daybreak to take steps that would have made Bart had he known, feel terribly uncomfortable, instead of growing hour by hour more confident and at his ease.
Chapter Thirty Eight.
Hunted by Indians.
There’s something wonderfully inspiriting in sunshine—something that makes the heart leap and the blood course through the veins, raising the spirits, and sending trouble along with darkness far away into the background.