If he could have given Elizabeth warning of his proximity, so that she would have been prepared to take advantage of any momentary opportunity, it would have been increasing the chances of success, but she was too lost in dread and too hopeless of succor, to be on the look-out for friends in this unlikely spot. She did frequently turn her head and gaze off over the track they had passed, as if with some hope of the emigrants sending aid, and after such a fruitless search over the desert road, would drop her head despairingly. Once, while all the Indians were busy among themselves, and she seemed to be looking toward the bush behind which he knelt, he ventured to raise his hand an instant. Whether she perceived the signal he could not decide; she certainly started, lifting her head with so eager a motion that her savage captor turned toward her sharply, when she immediately resumed her drooping attitude.
The one narrow chance which Nat saw, was to kill the rider and secure his horse, who, he knew, would bound to him at the first call. If he could do this before they wreaked a sudden revenge upon the girl, he hoped to seize her and to fight his way free of the band. It would be as good as a miracle if they should indeed get away without injury from the shower of shot which would be poured upon them, as the Indians, more than half of them, had guns.
"Kit knows I'm somewhere about," muttered the hunter, as his horse began to grow restive—so restive that the red robber could hardly retain his seat in the saddle. "I wouldn't give that horse for all the human friends you could give standing-room on this prairie."
That instant the animal made a plunge which compelled his rider to loosen his hold upon the pony's rein or lose his own equilibrium—he dropped his hold upon the captive, and in three seconds Nat had pulled trigger upon him. Simultaneously with the crack of his rifle the shriek of the dying savage rung upon the air as he leaped from the saddle, and fell headlong to the earth. Before the astonished enemy could comprehend what had happened, with a sharp, low cry to his steed, Golden Arrow sprung full into sight, appearing to their superstitious gaze to have dropped from the sky. Kit needed no second signal. With a joyous whining he bounded to meet his master, who was upon his back before one of the savages had presence of mind to attempt retaliation. In half a moment more he had snatched the girl from the rope which bound her to the pony, flung her across his horse's neck, to whom he gave an encouraging whistle, and turned to fly, with the whole pack, now yelling with hate and fury, upon his track. Into the bed of the stream Nat guided his horse, whose immense leaps, doubly burdened as he was, showed his almost human sagacity in the consciousness of deadly peril. More than twenty bullets whistled above and around them. Nat felt one cut the rim of his cap, while another grazed his leg as it plowed through his leather breeches. Whether any struck the frail form hanging over his saddle-bow, he had no time to see—only there was neither motion or cry. A few rods more placed them under the protection of a rise in the bank, from whence he could act upon the defensive; here, sheltered from their aim, he wheeled in the saddle and shot down his nearest pursuer. Three or four more came recklessly on, but as many shots from his revolver sent them dead to the earth, or wounded and yelling back again. Finally the whole troop paused and backed out of rifle-range, where they seemed to be holding a consultation. With all possible speed Nat reloaded his rifle—he had yet two charges in his revolver—then, patting his horse, gave him rein, and with a shout of triumph, flew off over the plain in the direction of the trail to the West. He feared nothing now, for he had a little the start, and there was no animal in the group behind that could distance Kit Carson. Of this the red-skins were as well aware as he; looking back, he perceived they were not attempting pursuit, but were sullenly gathering about their killed and wounded companions.
It was well for the escaped whites that this was the result. For a while, Kit galloped on with fierce energy; but suddenly, and while they were yet almost within sight of the enemy, he began to fail and stagger.
"What is it, Kit? What is it, my beauty?" questioned his owner, stroking his neck, and speaking as softly as to a lady. "He is hurt—bleeding—poor Kit!" he cried, as, stooping, he perceived for the first time the life-blood flowing from a wound in the chest received by the noble animal. "We must dismount and see what we can do for him."
The slackened speed and the voice of her preserver aroused Elizabeth; she lifted herself from the neck to which she was clinging, and comprehending what had happened, slid to the ground. Nat, with evident distress, dismounted and examined the wound.
"Poor Kit, we can do nothing for you," he cried.
"Take this—perhaps you can stanch the blood," said his companion, taking off her apron.