The hammer fell gently on the percussion-cap.
“Forward!”
With a glance at Frontier Shack, whose hands griped Tecumseh’s mane with the tenacity of death, the two boys shot forward in the wake of the renegade.
Their safety did lie in following Tom Kyle, who uttered a light laugh when he glanced over his shoulder and saw them giving their Pawnee horses spur and rein.
The two heroes imitated the flying king as nearly as possible.
They stripped themselves to their jackets, and rising in the stirrups, they waved their garments at the bisons.
For many moments it seemed that they were riding to a terrible death beneath short horns and stony feet; but all at once, that dreadful thought gave place to a wild cry of safety.
The renegade rode almost directly toward the rising sun, and the rich gold trimmings of his Spanish cloak dazzled the eyes of the beasts; and at length the brownish ranks divided.
A yell of triumph pealed from Tom Kyle’s lips, and a minute later he passed the jaws of death! The young buffalo-hunters followed him, and at their side dashed the iron-gray, as eager to bear his motionless master through the dark ranks as horse well could be.
The renegade’s steed was no mean racer. He distanced the other horses, and when the buffaloes had been baffled, he was almost beyond rifle-range.