The men at the bits sprang aside. The horses, having stood so long, and “smelling their oats” ahead of them, were eager to be off. With a great tug the coach started, the harness clattering about the horses’ heels almost immediately as the coach pitched over the rise. This, and the shouts and yells of the outlaws, frightened the poor brutes. They felt no restraining hand on the lines; there was no foot on the brake. The coach was coming down behind them with all its weight.
Therefore the horses leaped away, frightened beyond reason. The old coach bumped and swayed. The rough, steep pitch was not long, but it looked as though the coach would not arrive at the bottom of this first incline without being smashed.
Down it thundered, the wheels bumping, the body swaying, and the bound figure, on the seat unable to retard it in the least. Behind thundered the big white horse, for, breaking away from its captors, Chief intended to follow his master to the death!
Not far away from the scene of the hold-up of the stage-coach by the outlaws, and near the time that the coach and horses were released upon this dangerous dash down Breakneck Hill, a horseman was crossing a table-land, one side of which was formed by the steep wall of the bluff down the face of which the old stage-road led.
Though alone upon the table-land, far in the rear other horsemen were visible upon his trail. At first glance one might have thought that it was a chase, the man in front being pursued by the score or so of men behind him; but a second scrutiny would have shown that it was merely the difference in horse-flesh and human endurance that caused the long space to separate the leader and his followers.
The lone horseman was dressed in a cavalry fatigue uniform with pants tucked in boots, a slouch-hat pinned up with a pair of crossed sabers, and a gold cord encircling the hat, while upon the shoulders of his jacket were straps showing his rank to be that of a first lieutenant in the United States Army.
His face was stern for so young a man, but there were humorous lines about his smoothly shaven lips, and fun danced in the corners of his eyes. Despite the hard brown of his countenance, that must have begun to be tanned by the Western sun and wind at an early age, there was a kindly appearance about the young lieutenant.
He was armed with a cavalry sword and a pair of service pistols. One gauntleted hand rested on his sword-hilt as his horse galloped along. He was several miles ahead of his men, who were now scarcely more than black specks against the horizon.
“Kinder risky to ride so far ahead, I suppose,” he was muttering. “Bill would tell me that. By thunder! if I’m attacked on this plateau I can fight—or run—I hope. There’s little cover hereabouts for either Indians or road-agents. And the latter gentry don’t usually care to tackle Uncle Sam’s cavalry.”
Suddenly the silence about him was shattered by distant yells and several rifle-shots. He glanced back. Nothing was happening to his men. The sound came from ahead. Again he heard shouts and shots, and after that the ring of horses’ hoofs and the rumble of heavy wheels.