"I'm going to send you with a message to the Fort," exclaimed Rogers, suddenly, as he stopped the horse. "That is, I'm going to start you with a message. Whether you live to deliver it is another matter," he added, grimly. "However, if anything happens to you, the message will be probably found, because within three hours you ought to be on a well traveled trail."
In amazement, the scout listened to his words, then felt something being thrust under the cords that bound his arms.
As this motion ceased, there ensued an absolute silence, then a resounding slap rang out and Shaw felt his mount leap forward—whither, he did not know.
And as his horse dashed ahead, Rogers mocking laugh rang in his ears.
Diabolical, indeed, was the plan the terrible outlaw had adopted.
Absolutely helpless, even his powers of speech and sight cut off by a gag and bandage, and bound fast to a horse, the scout was sent at a gallop into the night. Should the animal stumble, he might be crushed to death. Unfamiliar with the trail, in the darkness the horse might step off a precipice or, should the animal take it into his head, he might wander among the foothills, browsing in the sweet grass while the man on his back, tortured by flies and mosquitoes, slowly went crazy from thirst and hunger.
Little, however, did Rogers reck what fate overtook the scout, though he hoped the horse would return to the Fort, finding his way by instinct, well knowing that the sight of the soldier, bound and wounded, would rouse the colonel to fury, while his crude note was intended to strike terror by its threats.
But not long did the outlaw have to gloat over his deviltry.
As he stood listening to the hoofbeats of the army horse grow fainter and fainter, his eyes wandered over the dim outlines of the mountains surrounding him.
Suddenly he saw a ball of flame shoot into the air from the hill directly ahead of him, followed almost immediately by other balls from right and left.