“Well, we must try it. Remember that your father’s life may depend upon your own, Clara, and bear up if you can. It will be hard—I wish I could spare you—but there is no help for it.”
The sun was now quite high above the hills, for young Ayres had lost a good hour by listening to Clara’s story, and now they pressed on at a fair pace, though ignorant whether they were pursuing the right course or were going widely astray.
But they were destined to meet with another interruption, right speedily. They had just gained the next ridge when Clara suddenly uttered a little cry of affright.
“Ah! Buenos—look there—the Indians! My God! we are lost!” she gasped, as, with outstretched hand, she guided the gaze of her companion toward the ridge they had just left but a few moments before.
One quick glance satisfied Buenos of the correctness of her fears. He saw a little group of horsemen, that he believed were mounted Indians.
“Quick! stoop down Clara! They have not seen us yet, and if we hide they may pass by without noticing our trail. Follow me—quick!” Ayres hissed, as, crouching low down, he half-led, half-dragged his companion down the hill-side, making toward a small clump of timber growing in the bottom of the vale.
Toward this they ran at full speed, and had barely gained its shelter when the horsemen reached the ridge they had just left. A wild cry came to the ears of the fugitives, and then they saw the horsemen dash furiously toward their refuge.
“Keep behind me, Clara,” muttered Ayres, as he closely examined the condition of his revolver. “They will not find us tame victims. They must pay a price for our lives.”
“There are only two—perhaps they are—”
“See the other horses—four of them? They must have riders, who are hiding behind their bodies. Look, they stop! I’ll—”