“There’s another one to look arter. Can’t ye tell that by the sound?”
Ned Hawkins and his party, in doubt as to what course they should pursue, were discussing the state of affairs when the first flash of lightning, and its attendant thunder-clap, came. As the rain rushed down, the five drew closer together, sheltering themselves, as much as possible, with their blankets. They had stood perhaps for a quarter of an hour exposed to the pitiless drenching of the rain, when Bill Stevens uttered a low, warning:
“Hush!”
All listened, and the sound of a horse, travelling at full gallop, was distinctly heard.
“By thunder! I ought to know that gallop,” whispered Stevens. “If that ain’t the Major’s bay mare, then may grizzlies eat me. It can’t be that one of them cussed Indians has her. I goes in for hailin’ ’em, and see. Ef it’s Injun its all right—we’re all near the Major. If it ain’t Injun, we’re all right anyhow, for it’s one of Robison’s family.”
The stranger was now so near that he seemed to be likely to run right upon them, if they did not give him notice of their presence; accordingly Ned Hawkins hailed him with:
“Who goes thar?”
A sound followed, as though the horse had been thrown violently back on its haunches, and the response came:
“A friend! Who are you?”