Lone Pine: The Story of a Lost Mine

by R. B. Townshend

"Hurrah," shouted Stephens again as he darted to his mare, "hurrah! Run, you dogs, run!"

The sweetest moment in a man's life is when he looks in the eyes of his mistress and knows that his love is returned; the proudest is when he sees in front of him his foes, but sees nothing but their backs. And to Stephens both these things came in one hour.

He raised the rein, and Morgana bounded forward in pursuit. His eye glancing around fell upon the figure of Doctor Benton just leaping from the stage waggon, pistol in hand. He had heard the rapid shots before he heard Stephens's shout, and his first impulse had been to catch up his weapon and take his share in the fighting. But so quick had been the deadly work that there was no one for him to turn loose on save the dead or dying redskins who bestrewed the ground, and he paused as if undecided what to do.

Stephens settled the question for him.

"Hurry up, there, Doc," he shouted over his shoulder to him, "hurry up, or Rocky'll be dead." And looking back he saw the army surgeon run across to where the prostrate white man lay.

Seeing this, he was satisfied skilled hands would do all that was possible to save his old partner. For himself there was only one course, to go on right to the bitter end as he had begun, and avenge on the whole murderous gang the wanton knife-stroke of their chief,—ay, and more, to avenge upon them, too, the terrors of Manuelita, and the murder of that lonely wanderer in the mountains whom he and the whole lot of them had so foully done to death beside the Lone Pine. For all that long account, vengeance should be taken to the very last drop.

He looked ahead: the four fugitives were galloping a quarter of a mile in front of him, making not for the sierra, but for the more open valley of the Agua Negra. He was clearing the last of the San Remo houses now, and as he did so he heard the thunder of horsehoofs on his right, and two well-mounted Mexicans dashed forth from the corrals to join in the pursuit. They were the same young men who the day before had ridden in ahead of Don Nepomuceno's party to rejoin their sweethearts. They had heard the firing begin, had seen the fray, and mounted in hot haste to play their part.

"Bueno!" he shouted when he saw them, "bueno, boys! Wade in. We'll give 'em a dose of it between us."

The Mexicans cheered back to him, and plied their quirts; Morgana was going at three quarters racing speed, but they sent their horses along from the start as if they were running a quarter-mile dash. The house from which they came was a little to one side of the Indians' line of flight, and they made for their line at such an angle that they gained a decided advantage both on them and on the American, and were enabled to cut ahead of the latter. The fugitives, hearing the shouts, and looking back and becoming aware of these new pursuers, at once began to flog, but the rearmost Navajo's horse could not answer to the whip, and the tremendous pace at which the Mexicans had started carried them right up to within fifty yards of him.