“Horse running away with him, probably—his folks ought to be clubbed for letting him out on such an animal. Well, spread out, boys, and we’ll catch him.”
But Buck stopped in two jumps, at Ches’ command of “Whoa!”
“Fren’s!” cried the boy, “me pardner’s caught in a tunnel dat caved in on him. Kin yer help us out? Three mile above Jones’s Hill.”
He had not finished the sentence before two men sprang for the horses. The rest grabbed picks and shovels and hurled them into the wagon.
“We’ll be there, hell-a-whooping,” said Captain Hanrahan.
“T’anks!” replied Ches weakly, and then the world went out. The captain caught him as he fell.
“Poor little cuss! He rid hard to help his pardner!” said the captain. “Hump yourselves, boys—all ready! Got the whisky, Pete? Picks enough? Stick the axes where they won’t jump loose and cut a leg off some of us. Tie the horse behind—good animal, that. All right, let ’em go!”
They went. Over stones and gulleys, the tools clanging and banging fit to leap from the wagon, the men clinging to the side-boards for dear life.
Down hill-sides like the slant of a roof, the horses keeping out of the way of the wagon; up the other side with the reeking animals straining every fiber; over bridges that bent fearfully beneath the shock of their onset; swaying around curves with the wheels sluing and sparks flying, and over the level as though the devil himself were behind them.
It was the record trip for eight miles in a wagon in that country. The driver stood up, a foot braced on either side, the reins thrown loose, the whip plied hard, and every urging that voice could give shrieked out by his powerful lungs.