The horses had broken away from the tree, and were going down the trail at a tearing gait, dragging the stagecoach, which swayed and bounced on the rough places, as if it would go over.
The excited stage driver started after them on foot, as if he thought he could overtake them in that way.
“No use to run your lungs out in that style, Elmore,” the man from Laramie called out to him. “Our horses are right here. You can straddle the back of one of ’em, with the reg’lar rider, and get there a heap quicker.”
The scout and his pards hurried to get up their horses, which were hidden out in the scrub.
But by the time they had done this the stage had bobbed out of sight. By and by they even ceased to hear it; though, before the sounds of its flight ceased, a crashing sound reached them, much as if the stage had been overturned.
“That girl is shore gittin’ a run fer her money,” observed Nomad; “thet is, ef she likes fast goin’ in an ole stagecoach. I’m hopin’ she ain’t hurted none whatever.”
They were quickly galloping along the trail after the stage.
When they came in sight of it they saw what had happened. Scared by shadows at one side of the way, the horses had swung out of the plain road, then had vainly tried to get past, a big bowlder by going one on each side of it; the result of which was that the pole of the stage had struck the rock, breaking the pole, bringing the horses to a violent stop, and tumbling the stage over on its side. In addition, the horses had snarled themselves in their harness with a perfection that rendered them helpless.
Hank Elmore was aghast when he beheld the damage.
“I wonder what et done fer ther woman?” was Nomad’s query. “I don’t see her stirrin’ round, and ef she ain’t eternally smashed, I sh’d think thet she’d git outer ther ole hearse.”