“No doubt of it,” I replied, at that moment equally guided to the conjecture.
“Wagh!” exclaimed the trapper, “the poor fellow’s scalp is in danger just now. I wonder they take all that trouble to get him away alive!—that puzzles me, amigo! I think it high time they looked to their own lives, without being so particular about that of their prisoner. Santissima Virgen! As I live, there’s a woman among them!”
“Yes—I see her—I know her. Her presence explains why they are taking him alive.”
“You know her?”
“And him too. Poor fellow! I hope she will befriend him; but—”
I was hindered from continuing the explanation. Just at that moment, the led-horses were rushed up to: and those in charge of the wounded were seen to spring to their backs. Here and there, a double mount proclaimed that the disabled men were still capable of making a last effort for their lives. All had got upon their horses, and in a straggling crowd were making to join the main band; when, just at that moment, one of the horses that carried two men was seen to swerve suddenly from the line, and, heading up the valley, come galloping in our direction. The horse appeared to have taken fright, and shied away from the others; while the men upon his back were tossing and writhing about, as if trying to restrain him! At the same instant, half-a-dozen mounted Arapahoes were seen shooting forth from the crowd, and with loud yells galloping in pursuit of the runaway! The double-loaded steed—a powerful animal—kept on his course; but, not until he had approached within three or four hundred paces of our own front, could I account for this strange manoeuvre. Then was I enabled to comprehend the mysterious escapade. The rider upon the croup was Frank Wingrove! He upon the saddle was a red Arapaho. The bodies of the two men appeared to be lashed together by a raw-hide rope; but, in front of the Indian, I could perceive the muscular arms of the young backwoodsman tightly embracing the chest of the savage, while with the reins in his fingers he was guiding the gallop of the horse! With a shout of joy I hailed the escape of my comrade, now no longer problematical. In a score of seconds more, we should meet.
The pursuers—satisfied that his recapture was hopeless without risking their own scalps—had already turned with a despairing shout, and were galloping back. Wingrove was near enough to hear the cry of encouragement that passed from my lips; and, soon recognising me, despite the disguise of the serapé, headed his horse directly towards us.
“Hooraw, capt’n!” cried he, as he came up. “Hev you e’er a knife to cut me clar o’ this Indjun? Durn the niggur! I’ve got him in a leetle o’ the tightest fix he’s been in for a while, I reck’n. Dog-gone ye! keep still, ye skunk, or I’ll smash every rib in yur body! Quiet now!”
During all this time, the Indian was making the most strenuous efforts to free himself from the grasp of his powerful adversary—now endeavouring to throw himself down from the horse, anon trying to turn the animal in an opposite direction. But the thongs intended to secure his captive—and which had no doubt been wound around both of them by a third hand—had become bonds for himself. Wingrove, who had by some means wrenched his wrists free from their fastenings, had turned the tables upon his captor, by transforming him into a captive! I chanced to be without a knife; but the Mexican was supplied with the necessary implement; and, drawing it from its sheath, shot past me to use it. I thought he intended to cut the thongs that bound the two men together. So did he: but not till after he had performed another operation—which consisted in plunging his blade between the ribs of the Arapaho! At the stab, the Indian gave utterance to his wild death-shout. In the same instant his head coggled over upon his shoulder, his body relaxed its muscular tension, and hung limp over the raw-hide rope. A snig of the red blade severed the thong; and the Indian’s body sliding down from the withers of the horse, fell with a dull dead sound upon the turf.
“Here Americano!” cried the trapper, holding out the ensanguined knife to Wingrove; “take this weapon for want of a better. Let us on! See! the picaros are making off. Vamos! nos vamonos!”