“Well, as to that, I don’t much care what you call it—but get up. Why, what’s wrong wi’ you?”
“The run has been very long, and I pressed forward impatiently, trusting too much to my own strength. Let my friend help me to mount.”
“Well, now I come to think of it,” said the trapper, as he sprang to the ground, “you have come a tremendous way—a most awful long way—in an uncommon short time. A fellow don’t think o’ that when he’s mounted, ye see. There now,” he added, resuming his own seat in the saddle, “off we go. But there’s no need to overdrive the cattle; we’ll be there in good time, I warrant ye, for the nags are both good and fresh.”
Little Tim spoke the simple truth, for his own horse which he had discovered along with that of his friend some time after parting from him, was a splendid animal, much more powerful and active than the ordinary Indian horses. The steed of Whitewing was a half-wild creature of Spanish descent, from the plains of Mexico.
Nothing more was spoken after this. The two horsemen rode steadily on side by side, proceeding with long but not too rapid strides over the ground: now descending into the hollows, or ascending the gentle undulations of the plains; anon turning out and in to avoid the rocks and ruts and rugged places; or sweeping to right or left to keep clear of clumps of stunted wood and thickets, but never for a moment drawing rein until the goal was reached, which happened very shortly before the break of day.
The riding was absolute rest to Whitewing, who recovered strength rapidly as they advanced.
“There is neither sight nor sound of the foe here,” murmured the Indian.
“No, all safe!” replied the trapper in a tone of satisfaction, as they cantered to the summit of one of the prairie waves, and beheld the wigwams of Bald Eagle shining peacefully in the moonlight on the plain below.