For some minutes he moved straight on, hurting his feet on the stronger grass stalks; and then, sitting down, he hastily put on his boots. After that he broke into a steady run, which he meant to keep up as long as possible. He was now anxious that the threatened storm should not break, because if the rustlers had gone to sleep, the longer they remained so the better. He failed to understand how he had escaped; perhaps his guards had been lulled into false security by his tranquil demeanor; perhaps they had trusted to each other; or one, rendered listless by the tension in the air, had relaxed his watchfulness for a few moments. This, however, did not matter. George was free; and he only wished that he had some idea as to where he was heading. He wanted to place a long distance between him and the stable by morning.
Dripping with perspiration, breathing hard, he kept up a steady pace for, so he thought, an hour, after which he walked a mile or two, and then broke into a run again. The grass was short; he struck no brush, and the ax did not encumber him. He imagined that dawn must be getting near when a dazzling flash swept the prairie and there was a long reverberatory rumbling overhead. He was almost blinded and bewildered, doubly uncertain where he was going; and then a great stream of white fire fell from the zenith. The thunder that followed was deafening, and for the next few minutes blaze succeeded blaze, and there was a constant crashing and rumbling overhead. After that came a rush of chilly wind and the air was filled with falling water.
A hot, steamy smell rose about him; but George, who had been walking again, began to run. He must use every exertion, for if he were right in concluding that he had been detained on American soil, his pursuers would follow him north, and when daylight came a mounted man's view would command a wide sweep of level prairie. The storm passed away, muttering, into the distance; the rain ceased, and the air was fresh and cool until the sun sprang up. It was on his right hand, he thought he had kept his line; but he stopped to consider on the edge of a ravine. The sides of the hollow were clothed with tall, wet grass and brush; it would offer good cover, but he could hardly avoid leaving a track if he followed it, and his pursuers would search such spots. It seemed wiser to push on across the plain.
Descending through the thinnest brush he could find, he stopped for a drink from the creek at the bottom, and then went on as fast as possible. He was becoming conscious of a pain in his left side; one foot felt sore; and as the sun got hotter a longing to lie down a while grew steadily stronger. Still, he could see nothing but short, gray grass ahead; he must hold on; there might be bluffs or broken country beyond the skyline.
At length a small square block cut against the dazzling brightness and slowly grew into a lonely homestead. After some consideration, George headed for it, and toward noon reached a little, birch-log dwelling, with a sod stable beside it. Both had an uncared-for appearance, which suggested their owner's poverty. As George approached the door, a gaunt, hard-faced man in dilapidated overalls came out and gazed at him in surprise. George's clothing, which had been torn when he was seized in the bluff, had further suffered during the deluge. He looked a weary, ragged outcast.
"Can you give me something to eat and hire me a horse?" he asked.
The farmer seemed suspicious.
"Guess I want my horses for the binder; I'm harvesting oats."
"I'll pay you well for the time you lose," George broke out.
"How much?"