“The Palos River can’t be more than a dozen miles beyond the place where we found the pool.”
He had unconsciously raised his voice. A laborer overheard the remark, whipped out his knife, hacked at the harness of the nearest mule,—it would have been simpler to loosen the braces, but he was past all thinking,—threw himself on the animal’s back, and rode off, lashing behind him with the end of the reins. The panic broke loose again. Man after man, the guide among them, followed after, until only the wagons and about half the animals remained.
“Come, Gus,” called the chief, “let them go.”
Young Van turned wearily, mounted his panting horse, and the two followed the men. But Carhart turned in his saddle to look back at the property abandoned there in the sand.
Half an hour later, Young Van’s horse stumbled and fell, barely giving his rider time to spring clear.
“Is he done for?” asked Carhart, reining up.
“It looks like it.”
“What’s the matter—done up yourself?”
“A little. I’ll sit here a minute. You go ahead. I’ll follow on foot.”
“Not a bit of it. Here—can you swing up behind me?”