"Saved, by thunder!" Rube said; and we turned and went
off at a steady trot that we could keep up for hours. "How long shall we
get, do you think, Seth?" "That all depends how long they follow down
stream. They can't tell how far we are ahead. I should think they will
go two miles down; then they will cross the stream and come back; and if
they don't happen to be on the right side of the stream as they pass
where we got out, they will go up another two or three miles, and near
as much down, before they strike the trail. We're pretty safe of half
an hour's start, and we might get, if we're lucky, near an hour. We
ain't safe yet, Rube, by a long way. It's near thirty miles from
Pepita's to the camp. We've come sixteen of it good--eighteen I should
say; we have got another twelve to the road, and we ain't safe then. No;
our only chance is to come across a hacienda and get horses. There are a
good many scattered about; but it's so dark, we might pass within fifty
yards and not see it. There won't be a streak of daylight till four, and
it ain't two yet." "Not far off, Seth." By this time we had got our wind
again, and quickened up into a fast swing; but our work had told on us,
and we couldn't have gone much over seven miles an hour. Several times,
as we went on, we could hear a trampling in the dark, and knew that we
had scared some horses; but though we had a lasso we had brought with
us, we might as well have tried to catch a bird with it. In an hour we
heard the dog again, but it was a long way behind. There was nothing for
it now but hard running, and we were still seven miles from the road,
and even that didn't mean safety. I began to think we were going to lose
the race, after all. In another quarter of an hour we stopped suddenly.
"Thunder!" said Rube; "what's that?" Some animal, that had been lying
down, got up just in front of us. "It's a horse! Your lasso, Rube!"
Rube, however, had made a tremendous rush forward, and, before the
animal could stretch himself into a gallop, had got close, and grasped
him by the mane. "It's no go," Rube said, as the horse made a step
forward; "he's an old un, dead lame." "Don't leave go, Rube," I said.
"He'll do for our turn." He was a miserable old beast, but I felt that
he would do as well as the best horse in the world for us. Rube saw my
meaning, and in a minute we were both astride on his back. He tottered,
and I thought he'd have gone down on his head. Kicking weren't of no
good;