If his horse should fail him now, in his hour of need, or if he should fall in weakness from his saddle, he knew his hour had come to die, for he was certain no mercy would be shown him. With his lasso he secured himself firmly in the saddle, and with his knife gave the scarf around his arm an extra turn to tighten it, sticking the blade into his sleeve to hold it in place. Then he again looked behind him.
A long line of horsemen was strung out. In advance, some four hundred yards away, he saw Kent King and a man disguised as an Indian, riding side by side, and driving their horses on with spurs that brought blood at every blow of their heels.
“I wish that the train people could see that parson now; I guess they’d think he needed praying for,” was the scout’s thought.
Then, as his own position struck him, he added:
“A little praying for me just now wouldn’t do any harm; come, Midnight, come, for they are gaining on you, and the hills are yet two miles away.”
The splendid animal seemed to feel all that was expected of him. He made a still greater effort, though no spur or lash had touched his glossy hide, and again held his own with the pursuers.
“That’s it, my bird of the plains, fly from your foes, and save me now, as often you have before!”
Still more encouraged by his master’s voice, the fleet steed sped on, indeed like a bird, until the hills were not far away, and his pursuers yet two hundred yards distant.
“Another effort, Midnight; try again!” cried Buffalo Bill.
The next instant the horse dashed into a low thicket, while, around a base of jutting hill, suddenly appeared half a hundred mounted warriors.