In a galloping crowd, Dunbar, Wild Bill, Nomad, the scout and Perry swept over the top of the “rise” and into the scrub. Here they were joined by Jordan and Little Cayuse, and they skimmed the earth like a flock of low-flying birds.
There was no time for talk, no time for anything but an occasional look behind and a frantic urging of the horses.
Eight, nine, ten—a dozen mounted men flickered over the crest of the slope and settled themselves for what they evidently thought was to be a long chase.
“Twelve up!” shouted the Laramie man.
“Not so many, oh, not so many!” roared the old trapper. “We’re six! What’s two ter one? Waugh! Give ther word, Buffler, an’ we’ll turn on ’em.”
But the scout did not give the word. There might be no more than twelve in sight, but under the “rise” were enough cowboys to literally overwhelm the scout’s small party.
On went the race. Perry and Dunbar led the fugitives down into the timber, and there, where the scrub was thickest, there followed an exciting game of hare and hounds.
Knowing the country well, Perry and Dunbar were able to take advantage of every friendly swale and shallow seam in the river bottom. In brushy coverts the fugitives waited for the dozen cowboys to rush past, then they doubled back, crossed the river, followed up the opposite bank, recrossed and paused for breath in a coulee.
“Sufferin’ reptyles!” mourned old Nomad, slapping Hide-rack’s sweaty neck, “thet’s new bizness fer We, Us an’ Comp’ny, dodgin’ trouble thet-a-way. I hope I’ll forgive myself some time fer doin’ et.”
“You’d have had to forgive yourself for not doing it, Nick,” returned the scout, dismounting to loosen his saddle cinches, “if we’d taken any other course. How many cowboys has Phelps got in his outfit, Perry?”