Barry Le Clare could have easily distanced the Comanches on his noble white horse, Snow Cloud, but he was as brave a man as the sun ever shone upon. Never would he leave a comrade in danger. No, rather than do that he would suffer a dozen deaths.
His nature was a noble one, and when a man with his will resolved to do any thing, that thing was surely done.
He knew that it was his duty to stay by his comrades, and die with them if necessary, and his mind was made up to do it.
To tell the truth, he had no idea of running away.
The race was coming to a termination, for the whites were being overtaken, hand over hand. The trees were some distance off, and Ralph saw that the Indians would be up with them before they could reach the “motte” of timber beyond.
He resolves, however, to get as near to the trees as possible, and then to make a stand. It would then be “hilt to hilt.” What would be the issue? Were the four whites doomed to a horrible death?
The next fifteen minutes would decide their fate.
It looked very much as though they would never see another day, for ten to one, nay twelve to one, was more than enough to lay them out. The Indians now saw what the whites were aiming for, and they increased their speed so as to come up with them before the trees were reached. Both the horses that the Comanches led, and those that they rode were tired now, and had the fugitives only had fresh ones to mount they could have easily ridden away.
But the three mustangs were even more tired than those of the Indians, and at length Ralph saw that they must make a stand.
They were within a hundred yards of the trees, but the leading Comanches were up to them.