“Where?” demanded Eph, eagerly.
“He’s about the sixth rider—far back in the dust.”
“Sixth!” cried Eph, and his voice was husky with disappointment.
“But he’s coming along swiftly,” said Sandy. “The Hawk is stretching over the ground like a rabbit.”
“I see him now!” shouted Eph. “I see him! But he’s not sixth—he’s fourth!”
“He’s passed two of them since I spoke,” said Sandy, and then with a whoop, “There goes another to the rear!”
“And still another!” cried Eph, dropping his beloved Jerusha and waving his long arms. “He’s second!”
“Do you see Long Panther look over his shoulder?” called Sandy. “See how his teeth show—even at that distance! He looks as vicious as that ugly brute of a horse of his.”
Whirling out of the dust came the bony steed ridden by the Shawnee; its sweeping stride covered the ground with astonishing speed, its rider was bent low over its neck, his eagle plumes mingling with the steed’s flying mane. But if the stride of the Indian’s steed ate up the distance, the long legs of Hawk devoured it. The eyes of the young animal fairly flowed with excitement; his wide nostrils showed red; his flying hoofs made dazzling play as they flashed and reflashed, in and out, up and down; his sleek hide was flecked with foam.
“One hundred yards to go!” cried Sandy.