Mary was right; but a circumstance occurred which caused them to go away sooner than either she or they had anticipated.
Chapter Twenty.
A Gallop to the Rescue—A Discovery—Right-about Face—A disagreeable Surprise and a sudden Ejection—A Calm after the Storm—Mary a Huntress—Dick’s Story of the murdered Trapper.
When Dick, alias the Wild Man of the West, left his cave, as narrated in a previous chapter, and galloped away with reckless speed to afford the aid of his stout right arm to his friends in the Mountain Fort—for he counted them friends, although they little knew it—he felt that if he was to be of any use he must travel over the country as he had never travelled before, except once, when he had to fly for his life before five hundred Pawnee warriors.
It was a grand sight to behold that herculean backwoodsman on his noble steed, which seemed so well proportioned to its rider that it carried him as if he were but a boy, flying over the country on this brotherly errand. Mile after mile was passed, not indeed at full speed, for that would have broken the good horse down long before the goal was reached, but at a bowling gallop, taking bogs, and rocks, and fallen trees, and watercourses, with an elastic bound that told of bone and muscle overflowing with surplus energy.
Dick patted the horse’s arching neck with a look of pride and affection, and the animal tossed its head with a slight neigh of pleasure and a playful snap towards its rider’s right foot; for it loved its master, as the lower animals do always love those who treat them well, and it loved a wild, long, careering gallop, for that was the only means by which it could relieve its feelings.
There was something unusually wild-like about this horse, besides its great size and extraordinarily long mane and tail. It carried its head high and its ears pointed forward, and it looked boldly from side to side, as it went springingly along, more like a human being than a horse. It actually appeared to be taking intelligent notice of things around it. So much so, that Dick had got into a habit of saying a word or two now and then to it in a grave tone, as if he were conversing with a friend.
“Ay, it’s a fine country, isn’t it?” he said, patting the neck again.