“Ho, boy, it’s Doc Crombie, an’ a whole gang. An’ dey see us, too, sure. But dey never catch us!”
Spurs went into their horses’ flanks and the race began. For the noose of the rope was looming large and ominous before their terrified eyes.
A quarter of a mile from the hollow they divided and went their ways in three different directions.
CHAPTER XXVI
ON THE LITTLE BLUFF RIVER
Away to the west, where the plains cease and the hills begin, where the Little Bluff River debouches upon the plains from its secret path through cañon and crevasse, Jim Thorpe was standing beside a low scrub bush, gazing ruefully at his distressed horse. The poor brute was too tired to move from where he stood, nipping at the rich prairie grass about his feet. He still had the strength and necessary appetite to do this, but that was about all.
In his anxiety to serve the woman he loved Jim had done what years ago he had vowed never to do. He had ridden his willing servant to a standstill.
The saddle had been removed for more than an hour and was lying beside the bush, and the man, all impatience and anxiety, was considering his position and the possibility of fulfilling his mission. The outlook was pretty hopeless. He judged that he had at least ten miles to go, with no other means of making the distance than his own two legs.