One might deem it a wild, hopeless chance. And so, too, would she, but for a thought that had stolen into her mind. It had been suggested by the sight of an animal standing near. It was her own horse, that had been appropriated by one of the Indians. He was standing with the saddle still on, and the bridle resting over the crutch. A riding-gear so new to them had caught the fancy of the Indians, and they had left it on for exhibition.
Clara Blackadder knew her horse to be a fleet one.
“Once on his back,” thought she, “I might gallop out of their reach.”
She had a thought beyond. She might get upon the trace which the wagons had followed from Bent’s Fort. She believed she could remember, and return along it.
And still another thought. At the Fort she had seen many white men. They might be induced to come back with her, and rescue her captive companions—her brother.
All this passed through her mind in a few short moments; and while it was so passing, she slipped off the thongs, that were but carelessly lapped around her delicate limbs, and prepared for a start.
Now was the time, while the chief was inside his tent.