Only a desperate chance remained for Frank Reade to try.
He pulled hard and sharp on the reins, and threw the entire power of the machine into the iron limbs.
Like an immense bolt, the horse sprang forward, just as the man dashed close up to him, and the two vehicles scraped by with an ominous sound that made them all shudder over their narrow escape.
Then Frank wheeled again, moderated his speed, and ran on a parallel course with the man, and about half a mile from Gorse.
“The Steam Man does well,” muttered Frank, as he slowly increased his speed, “but this hour shall decide whether he can beat my Steam Horse. Now for the grand spurt.”
[CHAPTER IV.]
THE PRAIRIE LEAGUE.
Where two long spurs of a longer mountain range ran out upon the plains, grew a small patch of woods, springing up between the far-reaching arms of rocks.
Hidden from view in this little cluster of green trees, but approached by a blazed wagon road and well-worn footpath, was a large house, built in the roughest but most substantial style.
The walls were of hewn logs, two and three feet in thickness; the roof was surmounted with a thatching of straw, and the four sides of the two-story building were pierced with rifle apertures.