Daylight found him on the shore of a small river, not yet frozen over, whose icy waters cascaded down from the hills. He knew that if he followed this stream, it would lead him eventually to the ocean. He struggled on, conscious of fatigue and hunger. His feet were blistered and sore. His clothing was torn. An unexpected fall on a slippery rock had wrenched his right wrist, causing him excruciating pain. He was moving slowly along, wondering how much farther he would be compelled to go before he reached the coast, when a tall figure stepped out from its concealment of rocks, less than fifty yards ahead. It was one of the outlaws.
For a time despair choked him. Then he jumped quickly to cover and hurried back over the selfsame route he had come.
CHAPTER XIX
A GAME OF HIDE-AND-SEEK
During the next few hours, Dick engaged in a grim and desperate game of hide-and-seek with the outlaws. On several occasions he escaped death narrowly. He turned hither and thither, like a hunted animal, only to find his path barred by one or more of his enemies. Finally, in a last despairing effort to save himself, he struck off toward a high hill, on the crest of which were lofty rocks and towering pinnacles—broken and jagged slabs of granite. Here he would make his stand. Even though surrounded, he would have a chance to ward off attack. If necessary, he would remain here all day and make another break for freedom with the coming of darkness.
Climbing up, he reached the natural fortress and breathed a sigh of relief. He had neither food nor water. From a bush, which grew in a crevice in the rocks, he gathered fuel with which to start a fire. Then he sat down to wait.
In all his experience, he had never suffered more than upon this occasion. His stomach gnawed with hunger. He shook from exhaustion. Bareheaded, moccasins almost cut from his feet, clothing soiled and tattered, hands and face scratched—his appearance beggared description. His cheeks were hollow, while his eyes shone with a feverish, almost insane light.
After two hours of inaction, squatting miserably in front of his fire, he began to wonder if, after all, the outlaws had not abandoned the chase. In an effort to find out, he slipped gingerly over his barricade and scrambled down to the ledge below. He could command a good view here. His eyes roved the surrounding woodland. Everywhere he looked—but he could see no one. The silence was intense, deep, a sort of rhythmical beat pulsating through dead space under the vast dome of the sky.
His heart leaping with joy, he decided to quit his post and resume his journey. But something made him hesitate. An almost indiscernible movement along the slope below attracted his attention. He ducked quickly. A bullet whistled over his head. Angry and disappointed, he climbed back to the safety of the rocks.
How he would ever manage to endure the long and tedious wait for the coming of night, he did not know. The strain was so great that he decided more than once to walk boldly out and give himself up. Even death was preferable to this. Time after time, he rose and with bloodshot eyes stared out toward the west—to the broad, green expanse of the Pacific. If only Corporal Rand or Toma knew of his trouble, they would come to him. Sometimes, sitting moodily, chin resting in his hands, he thought of Sandy back at Settlement Mountain and wished that he were with him. Why had he been so eager to come in pursuit of the pack-train?
Night came as slowly as a limping beggar to a gate. Shadows deepened. Strange silhouettes appeared along the slope. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees below. The sounds of the forest were buried in the evening’s hush.