“I am Wakono! Death to him who follows!”
I spoke in Comanche. I was not so sure of the correctness of my words—either of the pronunciation or the syntax—but I had the gratification to perceive that I was understood. Perhaps my gestures helped the savages to comprehend me—the meaning of these was not to be mistaken.
From whatever cause, the pursuers made no further advance; but one and all, drawing in their horses, halted upon the spot.
I stayed not for further parley; but, wheeling quickly round, galloped away from them, as fast as the mustang could carry me.
Chapter One Hundred.
The Last Chase.
On facing towards the hill, I perceived the steed still not so distant. His white body, gleaming under the clear moonlight, could have been easily distinguished at a far greater distance. I had expected to see him much farther away; but, after all, the tilt of lances, and the menace delivered to the pursuing horsemen, had scarcely occupied a score of seconds, and he could not in the time have gone out of sight.
He was still running between myself and the foot of the hill—apparently keeping along the bank of the stream.