As they thus rode on they heard the wild war whoops that announced either their discovery, or that the Indians had encountered the young chief, Lightfoot, and learned from him what had occurred.
“Now, we must ride—ride!” said Clayton, and he bent forward in the saddle, lashing the horse on, and using the spurs mercilessly.
Again the wild yells of the Blackfeet broke forth.
“They may be yelling for some other reason,” she said, trying to encourage her lover.
“Yes; they may have sighted Cody and Pawnee Bill,” he assented. “There’s no telling; but they’ve struck something, some trail or some enemy, and, like a pack of hounds when the game is scented, they can’t help yelping.”
The path grew rougher, if that can be called a path which was more than half the time but a broken game trail, that played out and began again in the most eccentric manner. They had gained a high shoulder of the hills, and below them lay open country, that stretched on into illimitable distances, where there was much coarse grass.
“There is one way of defeating those scoundrels—of keeping them from seeing our trail,” said Clayton, at last; “and that is to burn it.”
“Burn it?”
“Yes; ride down into that, and fire the grass, and then make our flight behind the fire and the smoke.”
“And have the fire overtake us and burn us to death! But try it; I’d rather be burned to death than to fall into the hands of those awful and merciless Blackfeet.”