“No. I may have use for him. But our young friend left his horse staked out upon the prairie above. Take it—that will be the easiest way to dispose of it, to keep it from telling troublesome tales. Ride out from the baranca until you strike ground that will take and hold a trail, then round the head of the ravine. After that do not spare the brute. Horse-flesh is cheap, and Chigilli will furnish you with a remount.”
“But why—”
“For this reason. If this Ned Campbell is missed—which of course will be the case—search will be made for him. His horse’s trail will be struck here. As it leads, so will they follow, and play into our hands by meeting you half-way. In that case, you know what to do. The Kiowas are eager for scalps. Let them take all they can—only tell Chigilli that he must bring me Hawksley a prisoner. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now go and ride for life. By nightfall you can reach the rendezvous—by day-dawn you should be well on your road back here.”
But few more words were spoken, and James Mestayer left the strange retreat, and, after first cautiously scouring the surrounding prairie, dragged himself over the escarpment. After some little trouble, he secured the suspicious horse, and literally obeying the old man’s instructions, soon rounded the baranca’s head, then galloping swiftly away toward the west.
Hour after hour throughout that long day, he urged on the big horse, plying the spurs heavily and mercilessly, with only a few brief intervals for breathing his steed. Nowhere in the world are such reckless riders as in the Texan prairies, or among the cattle-districts of Kansas. Nowhere is so little regard paid to the life of a horse.
I know of one instance where a young man, naturally generous, affectionate and kind-hearted, on a two days’ trip rode three ponies until they dropped dead under the saddle. And this with no more urgent cause than that he was eager to meet with his relatives after a nine months’ sojourn herding cattle in lower Kansas. In forty hours—two days and one night—he rode three hundred and seventy-odd miles.
As the sun set, Mestayer caught sight of the hill-range in which he knew the Kiowa chief was awaiting a message from the old man, his “white father.” With bloody heel he urged on the heavily-laboring horse, though the blood-stained froth that dropped in flakes from its mouth, told plainly that the creature’s race was well-nigh run.
While yet the western sky was flecked with crimson, the end came, finding Mestayer prepared for it. Well knowing the symptoms, he was ready for the fall, and when the big bay fell forward heavily, the blood bursting from his nostrils, Mestayer alighted nimbly upon his feet, and without a second glance at the poor brute, he started forward with long, swinging strides that spoke well for his powers as a pedestrian.