They fired a scattering volley, but the bullets whizzed harmlessly around him. Riding over uneven ground, the Indians could not take accurate aim.
The scout was riding a splendid mustang, and the gallant animal fully understood what was expected of him. He knew that it was a ride for life, and that he must put forth his greatest speed to save his master from death and himself from an Indian owner—a fate terrible to any decent horse.
He crossed a wide ravine and tore along the valley toward Fort Larned.
Reaching a ridge beyond, Wild Bill looked back for a moment and saw that the Indians were tearing after him. They rode at great speed, and many of them were evidently well mounted.
“Their own ponies can’t travel like that,” said the scout to himself. “They must have done some raiding before this, and got hold of some of the settlers’ animals. The rising we’ve been looking for has broken out, sure. Them folks at the fort must be put on their guard, whatever happens. I guess the whole country will be ablaze in a couple of days.”
If he had been mounted on a fresh horse, Wild Bill would have had no doubt of the outcome of the race; but his mustang, splendid animal though he was, had already ridden far, and showed signs of flagging.
The Indians began to gain on their quarry for a time, and then the mustang made a spurt and shot ahead again. But the effort was too great for him, and he could not keep up his speed for long.
When he had run about three miles farther, half a dozen of the Indians had crept up to within two or three hundred yards, while several of the other braves were not far behind.
Now and then they fired at him, but their rifles were of inferior quality and their aim was bad, so that neither the scout nor his horse was touched.