His best chance, he decided, lay in the speed of the bay. As soon as he had crossed the range—if he ever got across—he would try to run the Indian ponies off their legs. If they found they could not catch him, the Piutes would give up the chase after a few miles.
The boy looked back. The Indians had swept out of the arroyo and were following him up the gulch. A dozen of them were bunched, with three or four trailing behind. But well in front of the group and going strong was a young brave mounted on a buckskin. At every stride his horse lengthened the distance between him and his companions.
“Big Chief Heap-in-a-Hurry aims to collect me,” the boy told himself aloud. “Me, I got different notions. Get a hustle on you, Jim. This is one race where I don’t aim to throw down on myself.”
The bay answered the call gallantly. With every ounce of bone and muscle Nevada Jim flung forward at the steep trail. The horse gave all it had to give, breathing heavily as it ploughed up the divide.
McClintock had changed his plans. The young Piute on the buckskin was a factor he could not ignore. It would never do to drop down from the hills with this enemy at his heels. The fresher mount would close in on the bay and the Indian would pick Hugh off at his leisure. It would be better to risk all on a bolder, more decisive stroke.
With voice and knee and the gentle caress of hand he urged Nevada Jim to his best. “I know, old-timer, it’s breakin’ yore heart,” he pleaded. “But I got to ask it of you—just for a mile or two more, Jim—till we get to the pass; then that’ll be all, if our luck stands up.”
Hugh felt his side again and was alarmed at the sogginess of the flannel shirt. The pain of the wound was insistent, but he had no time to worry about that. What troubled him was the loss of blood. He might fall out of the saddle from sheer weakness before he reached safety.
He looked back and faintly grinned. The Indians were beginning to string out, and the gap between the buckskin and the other horses had widened. This was exactly what he wanted.
“Come on, you Buckskin,” he shouted softly down the wind. “Don’t you stick around with them broomtails.”
Nevada Jim’s lungs were pumping hard, but the clean long legs of the horse still reached with long strides for the rising ground, the muscular shoulders moved smoothly and automatically.