Tom was now too much occupied, too shaken up and jolted about to have left any room for surprise. He heard, sounding above the clatter of his horse’s hoofs, a cry, loud and peremptory—a ringing command to halt.
At the risk of being thrown, he managed to look behind.
The newcomers had spurred up their mounts and were racing toward him at a whirlwind pace. Visions of falling into the hands of a band of desperate men flashed into his mind. The stern order to stop came again and again.
The Rambler made no reply. He no longer sought to control his horse; but, bending far over on its neck, and, riding with the skill of a cowboy, awaited developments with a fast-beating heart.
And developments speedily came. The two horsemen were thundering nearer.
“Stop—stop, I say!” yelled one.
“Hold on, or it will be the worse for you!” cried the other.
What could it mean? Were his adventures never to end? No matter how hard Tom tried he was helpless to shape events. He realized, too, with a sinking heart, that the exertions of his horse were fast telling on him; he was slackening speed. The furious race must soon end.
One backward glance showed him the foremost of the horsemen almost upon him. From out of the corner of his eye he could see the blurred outlines of a man leaning forward with arm outstretched ready to grasp the halter of his flying steed. His gray shadow shot in advance; then, neck and neck, the animals tore across the prairie, leaving a wake of trampled grass and sometimes a flattened bush behind them.
“I’ve got you, feller!” exclaimed a voice. “You wouldn’t stop, eh?”