He drove his heels into the flanks of the horse and sent it on with great bounds that bore it over the level land with almost the fleetness of the wind.
Where Ben Stevens was at the moment he did not know and had not time to inquire. All he knew was that ahead of him somewhere Wild Bill was in peril of his life, if not dead.
The blue heatlike shimmer before him still held up its concealing veil, and the lakelike illusion still continued.
It was as if he were galloping toward a wide reach of smoky blue water, yet this “water” fled ever before him as he galloped on.
He knew he could never come up with it, for it was of that miragy character which has more than once lured thirsty travelers to death, as they followed the blue vision, in the belief that it was a lake of real water.
Mile after mile, until three were cast behind the hoofs of his horse, did the scout ride on in that wild way; the mirage changing its appearance constantly, so that at one time it seemed a wide lake with islands, and at other times a stream broken into innumerable rivulets.
Then he rode down into a grassy swale, and there saw trampled grass showing hoof marks.
He jumped from the saddle and bent over them.
“Just as I thought; Cheyennes!”
He stared about as if he half expected to see a feathered head close by. He could not see far because of the smoky haze that still lay on everything.