“Whurroo! It’s mesilf as will sphoil the loike av some av thim,” cried Barney, as he picked up his rifle.
The savages were racing like mad across the prairie.
They had caught sight of the Steam Man, which was to them some fiend incarnate, some evil spirit which would seek their certain destruction.
Terror of the wildest sort made them whip their ponies to the utmost.
It was a mad race.
But the Steam Man was gaining.
He took tremendous strides. Frank pulled the whistle valve, and the shrieks sent up on the air were of a terrifying kind.
The savages had all gazed with wonder upon the white man’s iron horse that followed its steel track across their prairies.
But this latest appearance, the Steam Man, was too much for their nerves. They could not bear it, and fled.
The Steam Man would certainly have overtaken them.