Without reflection, I sprang out of the covert and rushed after.
I passed the renegade, who had half-regained his feet, and appeared but slightly wounded. Astonishment as much as aught else seemed to hold him to the spot. He was shouting and swearing—calling for help, and uttering threats of vengeance.
I could have slain him, and was half-inclined to the act; but there was no time to stay. I only thought of overtaking the fugitive, and aiding her in her flight.
The alarm was given—the camp was in commotion—fifty savages were starting upon the chase.
As we ran, my eyes fell upon a horse—a white horse. It was the steed; a man was leading him by a lazo. He was taking him from the fires towards the ground occupied by the mustangs; he was going to picket him on the grass.
Horse and man were directly in front of us, as we ran—in front of the fugitive. She was making towards them; I divined her intention.
In a few seconds he was up to the horse, and had seized the rope.
The Indian struggled, and tried to take it away from her; the red blade gleamed in his eyes, and he gave back.
He still clung to the rope; but in an instant it was cut from his hands, and, quick as thought, the heroic woman leaped upon the back of the steed, and was seen galling away!
The Indian was one of the horse-guards, and was therefore armed; he carried bow and quiver. Before the horse had galloped beyond reach, he had bent his bow, and sent an arrow from the string.