“Take mine,” called Larry King, as he turned to Neale.
“Red, I’ll handle this stupid beast or—”
“Wal, you ain’t handlin’ him,” interrupted King. “Hosses is my job, you know.”
Red took the bridle from Neale and in one moment the balky horse recognized a master arm.
“By Heaven! we’ve got to hurry!” called Neale.
It did seem that the Indians would head them off. Neale and King labored over the rocky ground as best they could, and by dint of hard effort came up with their party. The Indians were quartering the other ridge, riding as if on level ground. The going grew rougher. Baxter’s horse slipped and lamed his right fore leg. Henney’s saddle turned, and more valuable time was lost. All the men drew their rifles. At every dip of ground they expected to come to a break that would make a stand inevitable.
From one point on the ridge they had a good view of the troops.
“Signal!” ordered the chief.
They yelled and shot and waved hats and scarfs. No use—the soldiers kept moving on at a snail pace far below.
“On—down the ridge!” was the order.