For the next half-hour there was no sign of redskins. Then one head, then another, straggled into view, but still so far distant that the fugitives could not see whether they were moving or stationary. Their own horses were on their last legs, so much so that it was becoming sheer brutality to urge them on. The two girls dismounted and turned their poor beasts loose and the servants followed their example—as did also Postlethwaite himself when, on looking back once more, he could see at least ten figures—moving now, beyond all doubt—not much more than a mile behind.
“We shall have to run for it,” he said.
“A ship, Señor; a ship!” cried one of the men hysterically, pointing ahead; and sure enough there 42 were the two naked topmasts of a brig, a mile or more farther down the river.
No one else remarked on the sight; no one had breath to spare for anything but running.
Five minutes went by, and they seemed no nearer. The Englishman glanced behind him; the Indians had not appreciably lessened the distance between them. Another five minutes, and then voices were becoming distinctly audible, though whether those of seamen or pursuers it was difficult to say. Postlethwaite began to stumble.
“I’m—done for,” he panted. “You must go on—and send help back.”
“No, no, give me your hand,” cried his elder daughter. “Look; look behind you!”
He obeyed. The two foremost Indians had abandoned their horses and come within gunshot; and one was coolly taking aim at them with his musket.
“Only another minute or two,” said the girl soothingly.
“Where are you going? Where are you going?” cried a voice in Spanish.