I found out later that the nearest call I had, or rather Coyote had, was where a bullet struck into the piece of antelope that was swung on my saddle.
With a last thrilling dash we charged into the shelter of the foothills among the rocks and pines. Here we swung off from our ponies and ran back to check our foremost pursuers. The three who were in the lead had absolutely disappeared.
But a half mile below were to be seen the rest of the Indians scampering like mad to overtake us.
"Where have those three gone?" I asked.
"They have taken to the ravine," replied Jim, "we can't stop here, they would surround us in a jiffy. We will have to go higher up the canyon."
There was no chance for us to make our home camp, for the Indians that were coming up the plain, would have headed us off.
So we sprang on our ponies again. They had recovered their wind in the brief rest we had given them. With the impetus of the great danger just behind us we started on a reckless dash up the canyon. We were determined to find some place we could defend, even if we could not escape.
We tore through the brush, jumped fallen logs, scrambled between rocks, zigzagged from this side to that of the ravine that was not precipitous enough for a canyon.
We urged our horses to the limit of their strength, and they were perfectly willing. Jim was in the lead and his unerring quickness of instinct guided him in finding the best trail.
The storm was darkening down the mountains before us and the thunder was rolling from height to height. The gray rain was sweeping down from the summits it seemed to us as if in a solid wall.