The détour will be much greater now: he has passed a large elbow of it, which must be repassed to get around; but there is no alternative, and, regretting his mistake, he makes along the back track at best speed. Not far before finding further reason to be sorry for his blunder. On that side, too, he sees mounted men directly before him—those he had lately eluded. They are scattered all over the plain, apparently in search of him, some riding towards the lake’s lower end, thinking he has gone that way. But all have their eyes on him now, and place themselves in position to intercept him. His path is beset on every side, the triumphant cries of the Coyoteros proclaiming their confidence that they have him at last—sure to capture or kill him now. And his own heart almost fails him: go which way he will, it must be through a shower of bullets.
Again he reins up, and sits in his saddle undecided. The risk seems equal, but it must be run; there is no help for it.
Ha! yes, there is. A thought has flashed across his brain—a memory. He remembers having seen the camp animals wading the lake through and through; not over belly-deep. Why cannot Crusader?
With quick resolve he sets his horse’s head for the water, and in a second or two after the animal is up to the saddle-girths, plunging lightly as if it were but fetlock-deep.
Another cry from the Indians on both sides—surprise and disappointment mingled; in tones telling of their belief in the supernatural, and come back.
But soon they, too, recall the shallowness of the lake, and see nothing strange in the fugitive attempting to escape across it. So, without loss of time, they again put their horses to speed, making to head him on its eastern shore.
They are as near as can be to succeeding. A close shave it is for the pursued messenger, who, on emerging from the water, sees on either flank horsemen hastening towards him. But he is not dismayed. Before any of them are within shot range he dashes onward; Crusader, with sinews braced by the cool bath, showing speed which ensures him against being overtaken.
He is pursued, nevertheless. The subtle savages know there are chances and mischances. One of the latter may arise in their favour; and hoping it will be so, they continue the chase.
The moon is now up, everything on the level llano distinguishable for miles, and the black horse with his pale-faced rider is still less than twenty lengths ahead; so after him they go, fast as their mustangs can be forced.
Only to find that in brief time the twenty lengths have become doubled, then trebled, till in fine they see that it is fruitless to carry the pursuit further.