Without a word passing between us, both simultaneously flung ourselves to the ground, exchanged horses, and remounted. Thank Heaven! Moro was at last between my knees!
“Now, young fellur!” cried the trapper, as I parted from him, “gallip like hell, an kitch up with her! We’ll soon be arter on yur trail—all right thur. Away!”
I needed no prompting from Rube; his speech was not finished, before I had sprung my horse forward, and was going like the wind.
It was only then that I could comprehend why the horses had been changed; a ruse it was—an after-thought of the cunning trappers!
Had I mounted my own conspicuous steed by the camp, the Indians would, in all probability, have suspected something, and continued the pursuit; it was the spotted mustang that had enabled me to carry out the counterfeit!
I had now beneath me a horse I could depend upon and with renewed vigour I bent myself to the chase. For the third time, the black and white stallions were to make trial of their speed—for the third time was it to be a struggle between these noble creatures.
Would the struggle be hard and long? Would Moro again be defeated? Such were my reflections as I swept onward in the pursuit.
I rode in silence; I scarcely drew breath, so keen were my apprehensions about the result.
A long start had the prairie-horse. My delay had thrown me far behind him—nearly a mile. But for the friendly light, I should have lost sight of him altogether; but the plain was open, the moon shining brightly, and the snow-white form, like a meteor, beaconed me onward.
I had not galloped far before I perceived that I was rapidly gaining upon the steed. Surely he was not running at his fleetest? Surely he was going more slowly than was his wont?