When about a score lengths from the edge of the arroyo, he reined up and wheeled round—as if he had suddenly formed the determination to ride back!
“Miss Poindexter!” he called out to the young lady, at that moment just up with him. “You must ride on alone.”
“But why, sir?” asked she, as she jerked the muzzle of the mustang close up to its counter, bringing it almost instantaneously to a stand.
“If we keep together we shall be overtaken. I must do something to stay those savage brutes. Here there is a chance—nowhere else. For heaven’s sake don’t question me! Ten seconds of lost time, and ’twill be too late. Look ahead yonder. You perceive the sheen of water. ’Tis a prairie pond. Ride straight towards it. You will find yourself between two high fences. They come together at the pond. You’ll see a gap, with bars. If I’m not up in time, gallop through, dismount, and put the bars up behind you.”
“And you, sir? You are going to undergo some great danger?”
“Have no fear for me! Alone, I shall run but little risk. ’Tis the mustang.—For mercy’s sake, gallop forward! Keep the water under your eyes. Let it guide you like a beacon fire. Remember to close the gap behind you. Away—away!”
For a second or two the young lady appeared irresolute—as if reluctant to part company with the man who was making such efforts to ensure her safety—perhaps at the peril of his own.
By good fortune she was not one of those timid maidens who turn frantic at a crisis, and drag to the bottom the swimmer who would save them. She had faith in the capability of her counsellor—believed that he knew what he was about—and, once more spurring the mare into a gallop, she rode off in a direct line for the prairie pond.
At the same instant, Maurice had given the rein to his horse, and was riding in the opposite direction—back to the place where they had leaped the arroyo!
On parting from his companion, he had drawn from his saddle holster the finest weapon ever wielded upon the prairies—either for attack or defence, against Indian, buffalo, or bear. It was the six-chambered revolver of Colonel Colt—not the spurious improvement of Deane, Adams, and a host of retrograde imitators—but the genuine article from the “land of wooden nutmegs,” with the Hartford brand upon its breech.