But on facing toward the girl to renew his grasp, he saw she was no longer within his reach! While he was struggling with the negress, she had darted away from his side; and, springing upon the back of her own horse, was urging the animal in full gallop out of the gorge!
Chapter Eighteen.
The Stalkers Astonished.
Making their way up the steep mountain-path, climbing over fallen tree-trunks, obstructed by thicket and scaur, the trappers at length got close to the cliff which, as ’Lije Orton had told them, looked down on the camping-place of the Cheyennes.
They had ceased talking aloud, and communicated with one another only in whispers. There was a deathlike stillness in the pure mountain air, and they knew that the slightest sound might make known their approach to the enemy.
They had thrown themselves into a deployed line, after the manner of skirmishers, crouching silently among the stunted pines, and gliding rapidly forward where the ground was without cover. Orton was directing them by signs; O’Neil stepping close by his side, and near enough for the slightest whisper to be heard between them.
The young Irishman still kept impatiently urging the advance. Every moment of delay seemed a month to the heart of the lover. Over and over again came before his mind that hideous picture his fancy had painted—Clara Blackadder struggling in the embrace of a savage! And that savage the Yellow Chief of the Cheyennes!
These fancies were like the waves of a tempestuous sea, following one another at intervals. As each rose grimly before him, he came near groaning aloud. He was only restrained by knowing the necessity for silence. As a relief he kept constantly whispering to his old comrade, and urging him to a more rapid advance.