by Max Brand
Backward glanced Torridon, and he saw the seven racers coming in a wide-flung line, and their shouting went before them, cutting the air with a sound more dreadful than the whistling of whips.
Those shouts had sent the alarm into the village. Other men and boys were darting out from the teepees. Still others were seen rushing to catch horses.
And the heart of Torridon sank in him. For Ashur he had no fear. But how could Nancy on her pinto outride these savage horsemen?
The cloud of youths came like a torrent at them. An arrow hissed past Torridon as he gave Ashur his head, and away they went across the plain, north, due north, where Roger Lincoln, in the dim distance, must be waiting for them according to his promise.
Heaven bring him close—Roger Lincoln and the magic of his long rifle.
The air was filled with the glancing points of javelins. Stones leaped still farther forward into the valley. Arrows arched bravely after them. But neither the pinto nor Ashur was so much as touched. Their speed was great, and the boys were overanxious and at too long a distance.
But that was a small consolation.
At the very first bound, the black stallion had drawn away from the little pinto and had to be pulled back. Running infinitely within his mighty strength, still he was able to keep the pony extended to the uttermost. He seemed to be floating along, and the little pinto was working with all its might.
Nancy, with the same anxious thought in her mind, looked up at Torridon with dread. But she made herself smile, and at that, the heart of Torridon swelled almost to bursting with pride in her courage, with love for her beauty, with pity for the terrible fate which he saw so close before them.
There would be no mercy for him on this second time when he tried to escape. They had spared him before, but now they had watched their best braves sickening, and they had attributed their fall to Torridon’s own malice. They would have his scalp and return with Ashur to the village.
As for Nancy? He dared not think of that.
A wild wave of noise broke over the nearer bank of the river. It seemed impossible that the Cheyennes should have crossed the water so quickly, but there they came, every one of the seven racers, still riding abreast in a line that flashed like polished metal in the sun.
Torridon looked back at them almost with exultation in their skill that was redoubling the speed of their horses. He had been among these people so long that, in spite of himself, some pride in their prowess could not be kept out of his mind.
He looked again at Nancy Brett. On her, more than on her horse depended the result of the race, and the first real hope came to Torridon when he saw that her pallor was decreasing, and the color beginning to flare up in her cheeks.
XI
After all, it is not altogether strength that rides a horse, but balance, spirit, rhythm—or otherwise the greatest jockeys would be those of the strongest hands. So Nancy Brett rode well, her heart in her work, her body light in the saddle, and the stout little Indian pony flying over the ground.
They held the rushing Cheyennes behind them. Aye, and then they began to draw away, slowly and surely. So that Torridon, looking to the west and seeing the sun declining with rapidity, laughed aloud in his joy. A trembling laughter, however, so close was his terror on the heels of his exultation.
“We’re winning, Nan!” he called to her. “They’re falling back! They’re falling back!”
She gave him a flashing smile, then returned seriously to her work, putting all her care into it—just a sufficient pull to keep up the pony’s head and make it run straight, and always with her eyes before her, if perchance dangerous holes should open in the ground, or to swerve from obvious soft spots.
He, watching her, gloried in her courage and in her spirit. And never had he loved her as he loved her then, when her good riding seemed about to win.
But when he looked back again, he saw that they no longer drew away; the Cheyennes stuck stubbornly at one distance behind them.
Then he remembered with a sinking heart what had been told him more than once before—that good riding on an Indian pony in time of need consists in torturing from the suffering little hardy creatures the last ounce of force. There was an old saying, also, that a horse that a white man had abandoned as useless from exhaustion would still carry a Mexican two days, and when the Mexican gave it up, an Indian could wring another week’s travel out of its pitiful bones and stumbling feet. So Torridon kept careful watch behind, never communicating his fear to the girl.
He saw the sweat beginning to run fast from the flanks of the little horse. Then the shoulders were varnished with foam, and foam also flew back from its mouth. If only he could have transferred by magic some of the supreme quality of Ashur to this short-legged running mate. For the lordly Ashur still floated serenely forward, careless, at ease, turning his proud head from side to side, seeming to mock the leagues before him, and the foolish pursuers.
The sun, too, seemed to stick at one place, in the west, refusing to descend lower, so that Torridon could believe the miracle in the Bible. To the slaughtered host, it must surely have seemed that the night would never come, as it seemed now to anxious Torridon.
When he looked back again, he told himself that the distance between them and the Indians was as great as ever, but he knew in his heart that it was not. The pursuers were gaining, little by little.
But it was no time to alarm the girl. She was riding well, closely, with all her attention and skill. Let the Cheyennes press still closer before she began to use the whip.
She would not waste attention, or run the risk of throwing her pony out of its stride by turning to look behind, but from time to time she flashed a glance at Torridon, as though reading the progress of the race in his face.
He knew he was growing pale. He tried to smile at her, and he knew that the smile was a ghastly mockery, because she blanched, and leaned lower over the saddle bows, trying to transfer her weight forward a little and so ease the running muscles of the horse.
At last, glancing back, the leaders of the Cheyennes seemed literally devouring the space left between them and the fugitives. And now into the lead two were racing.
They were well-mounted boys, scarcely established as warriors, but already known for their skill and their daring on the warpath. Light in the saddle, keen as hawks for their cruel work today, they were at their best, and they forged steadily into the lead until, at last, one of them yelled loudly in triumph, and the other, as though spurred on by the shouter, snatched out a heavy pistol and discharged it.
Torridon could not hear the sound of the ball. He felt that they were still too far off to be damaged by such a fire, but he glanced eagerly at Nancy. She gave him that quick, bright smile that meant that all was well.
“The whip, Nan!” he cried to her.
“It’s no good,” she answered. “He’s doing his best.”
“The whip! The whip!” he begged.
She obeyed, cutting the little fellow resolutely down the flank, and the result showed that Torridon was right. The little horse, tossing his head, certainly added to his pace.
More and more that hawk-like pair fell to the rear. And ease began to come again over poor Torridon. Still he was by no means sure. Struck by the whip from time to time, the pony certainly was giving his best now. He was strung out straight as a string from head to tail. Foam and sweat ran from him, and his nostrils strained wide, showing the fiery-red lining as he strove to take down deeper breaths of the vital air.
And well and truly was he running, for he was standing off the prolonged challenge of the fastest mounts in that section of the Cheyennes.
Slowly, slowly the sun began to sink. It entered the region of the horizon mist, which stood well up above the level of the plain, and as it turned from fire to gold Torridon smiled faintly and looked again to Nancy. She was looking a bit white and drawn, now, but she never flinched, and well it was that her nerve remained steady and true.
For again the Indians
were coming. The main body was some distance back, but the two young falcons in the lead were rushing forward with a wonderful velocity. Torridon could see that with hand and heel they were tormenting the poor horses into greater efforts. There simply was not strength in the arms of Nancy to equal those torments, and, if there had been, she had not the heart for such riding.
So Torridon spoke no more to urge her. He did not need to speak, for every glance she cast at him showed her the agony in his eyes, and that was more than shouted words to her.
Far ahead he saw the streak of shadow that showed where trees were rising above the level of the plain. There, he felt, might be shelter, but he knew in his heart that there was no shelter whatever. It could be no more than the fringing of trees along the bank of a small stream that cut through the plains, and in such a meager wood there would not be a moment’s hiding from the sharp eyes of the Indians.
Even that shelter it seemed impossible they should make, for the Cheyennes were pressing closer and closer.
“Nan, Nan,” he cried, “for heaven’s sake make one grand effort!”
The brave flashing smile she gave him once more and began to jockey the pony as though she were sprinting him over a short course.
He looked back and studied the situation again.
They were neither losing nor gaining, now. Her utmost effort was just able to maintain the pace of the pursuers. Looking back, Torridon could see what had happened to the rest of the Cheyennes.
Well behind the two young leaders was a group of some half a dozen braves, among them Standing Bull and Rising Hawk, and counted among the rest, the finest horsemen among the Cheyennes. But the bulk of the leaders were off on the horizon’s verge.
So much the pinto had done, at least. He had sunk the majority of the Cheyenne riders. Only the chosen few remained. But Torridon groaned as he gazed back at them. Two young devils worked in the lead. Behind them came the cream of the entire nation.
The screen of trees before him was all to which he could look forward. After that, death, perhaps. He would not let his mind go past the rising shadow.
Night, at least, would not come down in time. The sun’s lower rim was barely touching the horizon, and afterward would be the long twilight—and now every moment was more than hours, sapping the strength that remained to the pinto. Gallantly, gallantly he ran, but he had not on his back a torturing fiend to make of him a super-horse.
Now, glancing forward again, Torridon saw the screen of green rising straight before him. Beyond it was the gleam of water. Was it a fordable place? He hoped so, because the Indians behind did not swerve off to either side.
He said to Nancy: “Ride straight forward. Take the water, but not too fast, and let him walk up the farther bank. Then use what strength is left him to ride him on across the plain.”
She stared at him with great eyes. “What do you intend to do, Paul?”
He shouted furiously: “Are you going to argue? Do as I tell you!”
Her head sank a little. He felt as though he had struck her in the face, but he cared nothing for that. He had determined on a last desperate bid for their safety—for a moment’s hope in their flight, at the least.
Now he was riding through the thin screen of the willows, and, as he did so, he checked the black stallion and whirled him around; the pinto already was at the water, striking it with an almost metallic crash.
As he whirled the horse about, he saw the two young Cheyennes converge their horses a little, making for the gap between the trees through which the fugitives had ridden, and now Torridon could see the grins of unearthly joy on their faces, the wild glitter of their eyes. Already they were tasting the pleasure of the coup, the death stroke, the scalping.
As for Nancy, she would be reserved—for the teepee of Standing Bull.
He raised his pistol. Both shots must bring down a man, for otherwise it would mean sudden death, clutched by the other young tiger.
They saw that movement. One of them raised his lance and hurled it, but his horse at that moment stumbled, and, although the range was short, the long, slender weapon went past Torridon’s head with a soft, wavering hum that he would never forget to his death’s day.
The second had caught his rifle to the ready, and from this position he fired it, missed grossly, and then swung the heavy weapon with both hands, making ready to use it as a club to dash out the brains of the white man, and the while riding and guiding the pony with the grip of his powerful knees alone.
For a fraction of a second Torridon had held his fire. Not that there was no fear in him. He was cold with it. But as had happened before in dreadful crises of his life, that fear was not benumbing. It left his brain perfectly clear. He gave the first barrel of the pistol to the left-hand man—the lancer, who had now jerked a war club from his saddlebow. And the long years of practice that Torridon had given to that little weapon were useful now.
He took the head for his target and saw the young warrior slung from his saddle as though struck by a vast weight. The second barrel he gave to the other rider. There was no time, now, for delicate precision in aiming. He shot the man through the body and saw the grin of exultant triumph turn to a ghastly expression of horror, agony, and dreadful determination.
With the long rifle balanced for the blow, the brave rushed his pony in. Just above the head of Torridon the danger swayed, and then glanced harmlessly to the side.
The youth struck the ground with a strange and horrible jouncing sound, like the fall of a half-filled water barrel, and rolled rapidly over and over.
Two riderless ponies turned right and fled, frightened, among the trees.
XII
It affected Torridon, at that moment, like a rush of wind against him. And indeed, the dust that the horses of the two dead men had raised was still blowing up against his face. No, not like the passage of wind, but the light of two dim spirits, suddenly launched into nothingness on this calm, clear, beautiful evening.
For the sun was just down. A pillar of golden fire streaked up the western sky, and, on either side of it, broad wings of crimson, feathered with purple cloud, stretched far north and south, where the horizon was all be-dimmed with soft, rich colors in a band that mounted from the dun-colored earth to the incredible green of the lower sky. And above this, still, there was the evening sky, half glorious with day, and half darkened by night.
But out of that beauty rode a level rank of warriors, each a tower of strength, each terrible, now, to avenge the blood of the dead men. Seven noble Cheyennes, the glory of their race. He knew Standing Bull and Rising Hawk of old. And the others were not a whit less formidable. One of them, tipping his long rifle to his shoulder, sent a bullet hissing past the very ear of Torridon. A snap shot—and yet accurate enough even at that distance almost to end the boy’s days.
Then he swerved Ashur away. The stallion crossed the water with a crash and a bound, flung up the farther bank, and went after Nancy Brett and the pinto. When Torridon saw the distance to which she had gained, he was amazed and delighted. He was less pleased when he observed the manner in which Ashur ran up to the pony as though it were standing still.
Nancy, as he came back, turned on him a look as of one who sees the dead returned to life, but she asked no questions. Only when the seven wild riders topped the bank of the river behind them with a yell, she cast one look to the rear.
No doubt she marked the greater distance at which the pursuit rode. No doubt she saw that the two keen hawks of the Cheyennes were nowhere in view. But when she looked forward again, she made no comment to Torridon.
They crossed a little mound in the plain; suddenly the pinto tossed its head. So suddenly did it stop that Ashur was jerked far ahead in his stride before Torridon, his heart still, could swing the stallion around.
He saw Nancy clinging to the neck of the pony, which stood, dead lame, with one forehoof lifted from the ground. Only by grace of good riding and perfect balance had Nancy been able to keep on the horse at all.
Torridon rushed the black to her and held out his arms. “He’ll carry us both!”
“It’s death for both of us,” answered the girl. “Let me go. They . . . they’ll pay no attention to me . . . they’ll ride on after you.”
He answered her: “Standing Bull’s riding with them!”
Leaning from the saddle, he drew her up to him, and Ashur went off with a swinging stride.
The Cheyennes, speeding behind them, raised a long cry. It seemed to Torridon that that wolf-like howl never would die upon the air. It rang, and floated, and rang again, curdling the blood. Like wolves, indeed, when they make sure of the kill.
And yet the stallion ran with wonderful lightness. It seemed to Torridon, at first, that he marked no difference in the length or the rhythm of the stride. Certainly they were walking away from the red men in the rear.
But a difference there was. Nancy, clinging behind, made a secondary load that could not keep in perfect rhythm with the man in the saddle. It was not sheer poundage, only; it was the clumsy disposition of the weight that would kill Ashur.
But he showed no sign of faltering. He ran on into the red heart of the sunset, when the clouds in the sky took the full color, and almost the evening seemed brighter than the day—blood bright it was to Torridon, and like a superstitious child he caught that thought to his soul of souls and told himself that this was the end.
Back, far back fell the Cheyennes. But then they came again. Torridon, looking back, groaned with despair. It seemed as though magic were in them, to come and come again over those weary miles of long running.
The blood-red moment passed. The sky was old gold and pink and rose and soft purples all about. And still Ashur ran on, with his double burden, against the chosen horses of the Cheyennes.
It had told upon him, however. His ears no longer pricked. And his stride was shortened from its old smooth perfection. The flick and spring were gone from his legs, and in their place came a dreadful pounding that made Torridon bite his lips in sorrow and despair. Yet it was better, was it not, that all three of them—man and horse and woman—should die together?