“WHEN THE THUNDER STOPPED BOOMING FOR A FEW SECONDS THEY COULD HEAR THE ROAR OF THOSE COUNTLESS HOOFS BEHIND THEM.”
The best hope that he had lay in the chance that the trees might be somewhat nearer than they believed to be the case, owing to the impossibility of correctly gauging distances while the rain was falling, driven by the wind, and the deceptive lightning held sway.
At any rate, all they could do was to hang on, and trust to good fortune to carry them to safety. The horses were fully conscious of their danger, and could be trusted to head for the river. Besides, Dick kept his senses about him all the while, for he knew what it might mean if he allowed himself to give way.
When the thunder stopped booming for a few seconds they could hear the roar of those countless hoofs behind them. It had at least one good element about it—it spurred their horses on.
Had it been daylight, or even a clear, moonlight night, Dick might have managed to alter his course so as to strike the trees at some point nearer than the one the frightened horses were aiming for. But in such a storm one could only keep straight ahead, and trust to luck for the rest.
Roger, for once at least, had no suggestion to make. True, he looked backward at times as though almost ready to turn at bay, and face that rolling mass of tossing black horns and shaggy heads; but the folly of such a thing must have impressed itself upon him immediately, for he kept beside his companion throughout the entire ride.
His one bullet, even granting that it found a victim, would have counted no more than a grain of sand on the seashore. And after he had fired his bolt the end must have overwhelmed him instantly; for that resistless tide would sweep on, and every object in its path would be blotted out of existence.
It seemed to Roger that his nerves had reached a point where they could stand no more. And then he heard Dick give vent to a loud shout, not of new alarm, but with a ring of triumph in it; and surely never did the sound of human voice break upon the ears of Roger Armstrong with a sweeter cadence than when he grasped the tenor of what his companion was calling:
“The trees, Roger, the trees are at hand! Keep it up for five minutes more, and it will be all right!”