“Little Tim will go with me?” asked the Indian, as they turned into the hollow where the horses had been left.
“Ay, Whitewing,” answered the trapper, with a touch of enthusiasm; “Little Tim will stick to you through thick and thin, as long as—”
An exclamation from the Indian at that moment stopped him, for it was discovered that the horses were not there. The place was so open that concealment was not possible. The steeds of both men had somehow got rid of their hobbles and galloped away.
A feeling of despair came over the Indian at this discovery. It was quickly followed by a stern resolve. He was famed as being the fleetest and most enduring brave of his tribe. He would run home.
Without saying a word to his friend, he tightened his belt, and started off like a hound loosed from the leash. Little Tim ran a few hundred yards after him at top speed, but suddenly pulled up.
“Pooh! It’s useless,” he exclaimed. “I might as well run after a streak o’ greased lightnin’. Well, well, women have much to answer for! Who’d iver have thowt to see Whitewing shook off his balance like that? It strikes me I’ll sarve him best by lookin’ after the nags.”
While the trapper soliloquised thus he ran back to the camp to get one of the Indian horses, wherewith to go off in search of his own and that of his friend. He found the Indians busy making preparations to ride to the rescue of their Bald Eagle allies; but quick though these sons of the prairie were, they proved too slow for Little Tim, who leaped on the first horse he could lay hold of, and galloped away.
Meanwhile Whitewing ran with the fleet, untiring step of a trained runner whose heart is in his work; but the way was long, and as evening advanced even his superior powers began to fail a little. Still he held on, greatly overtaxing his strength. Nothing could have been more injudicious in a prolonged race. He began to suspect that it was unwise, when he came to a stretch of broken ground, which in the distance was traversed by a range of low hills. As he reached these he reduced the pace a little, but while he was clambering up the face of a rather precipitous cliff, the thought of the Blackfoot band and of the much-loved one came into his mind; prudence went to the winds, and in a moment he was on the summit of the cliff, panting vehemently—so much so, indeed, that he felt it absolutely necessary to sit down for a few moments to rest.
While resting thus, with his back against a rock, in the attitude of one utterly worn out, part of the missionary’s text flashed into his mind: “the race that is set before us.”
“Surely,” he murmured, looking up, “this race is set before me. The object is good. It is my duty as well as my desire.”