After half an hour’s riding Hickok heard the whinny of a pony, clear and loud, not one hundred yards ahead. The animal he rode would have answered had he not jerked it suddenly back upon its haunches, and then dismounting slipped his hand over its nose until he could prepare a muzzle from the pocket of his heavy coat.
As soon as he was in the saddle, the pony again dashed ahead, as if determined to overtake the animal ridden by Bloody Ike.
The chase led into the foothills and then the rockier, harder climbing. Hickok kept a sharp lookout ahead, for he well knew that the pony he bestrode would overtake the other if possible, and he did not care to come upon Bloody Ike unexpectedly when the latter had halted and discovered that he was pursued.
As yet Hickok believed that his presence was unknown to the man ahead, but in this he soon discovered that he was mistaken, and to his own cost.
Pulling his pony to a standstill in a rough defile, Hickok listened for hoofbeats. Then almost at the pony’s feet he saw a spark, crawling and sputtering toward him.
Hickok hesitated not an instant, but drove the spurs into the animal’s sides, and it leaped to one side with a startled snort.
The pony’s jump took it over the edge of the narrow trail, where it lost its footing, and rider and horse rolled down a sharp declivity just as an explosion shook the hills and flying rock showered about them as they plunged into unknown depths.