He, however, on his guard, threw up his left arm to ward off the attack, at the same time striking a powerful blow at the side of the animal. It proved a fatal one, for, with a sound, the mere repetition of his growl, he fell lifeless to the ground; while our hero, withdrawing his steel, turned to follow in the track of his still advancing friends. They, not perceiving that he had stopped, silently continued their journey, leaving their rear guard to stand with his reeking knife firmly clasped in his hand, perplexedly listening in the endeavour to guess the direction taken by his companions.
In five minutes Archer had extricated himself from the village, had traversed a distance of a hundred yards due west, and had then, with a Westerner’s instincts, turned and struck a course almost due south. To the south were friends: to the south help, freedom. But, if to the south lay safety, so, to the south lay danger. Outlying pickets returning bands of warriors, a tangled path—these, and darkness were before him. But death howled behind him, and forward, forward through the night, he pressed.
Hastening on, his teeth firm set, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness, his hand tightly clenching his hunting-knife, there came suddenly to his ears the sound of a rapidly approaching horseman. Not far distant was he, either, and though the danger of halting was almost commensurate with that of proceeding, still he thought it best to halt, and, if possible, escape the notice of the coming foe. For not one moment could he suppose that any but a foe might ride so recklessly in such close proximity to the Indian town.
Halting, then, he threw himself at full length upon the ground, hoping that good fortune and the darkness of the night might once again befriend him. At three yards distance he was invisible; it would be a keen-scented man, indeed, who might detect his presence.
The steed came nearer, the soft ground and tangled prairie grass, deadening the sounds of his approach.
Onward, and still onward the red-man swept.
Suddenly, from the very ground at his feet, arose a form, shadowy and spectral, reaching one arm toward the head of his steed, the other brandished back. Startled, his self-possession most sternly attacked, almost stunned by this ghostly apparition, his hand bore hard on the leathern thong of his bridle, and a twitch of the wrist, tried to turn the horse to one side. But, though the nerves of the rider were steel, not so with the animal he bestrode; and, though coming to a halt so suddenly as to be thrown back upon its haunches, farther than that he refused to do. So, as the hand of the warrior felt for the ready tomahawk, the phantom form gave a bound forward, the next moment, with a sweeping, hissing sound, the knife of Archer went hilt-home to the heart of the red-man.
Possessed, then, of steed and fire-arm, with foes behind and friends before, careless—reckless—of pursuers and pickets, straightforward through the gloom, dashed the escaped prisoner.
Somewhat tired was the steed, but the clouds rifted, the wailing winds sighed more softly, the moon again beamed out bright; and as hours sped on, and were thrown backward by the flying hoofs, the bright auroras tinged the eastern clouds, and John Howell, from his look-out by the foot of a thickly wooded hill, keeping sharp guard while his companions slept, caught glimpse of a strange figure, mounted on a foam flecked and weary steed, bearing down full and hard upon him. So, too, with Antonio, the half-breed, who, with the Crows following in his footsteps, had pushed on, and had, on the previous day, overtaken the trappers. He and Howell, together watching, descried the unknown figure, and, at first were somewhat ruffled in their minds, but at length, with a joyous clap of the hand upon his thigh, Howell shouted:
“Waving Plume, by mighty!”