tirely to his pony, leave it free to go as it willed.

Of the character of his pursuers there was no doubt. They were Indians,
the regular savage Indians of the plains, whose cruelties to settlers
were the theme of many a horrible story told at camp-fire and in
solitary shanty. Chris knew of their deeds well enough, but it had
never entered his mind that the time would come when he would be tearing
through the darkness over the rugged stones of a rocky gulch, flying for
his life with an ever-increasing pack baying and yelling at his heels.

For during the first minute or two he had been chased by three or four;
after that the numbers, as betrayed by their yells, rapidly increased,
till as they secured their pegged-out horses and sprang upon their
backs, fully fifty must have joined in the chase.

They were well mounted, too, upon the tough, wiry horses of the plains,
quite at home on the roughest of ground, and at first as Chris tore on
they seemed to be gaining upon him fast; but their savage yells, however
much they alarmed, had another effect upon Chris's mustang, making the
gallant little beast toss its long mane, raise its long, plume-like tail
till it floated out behind, and stretching out neck and legs, its length
growing closer to the track, it tore away like a greyhound, avoiding
obstacles as if by some occult force, and making the air whistle by the
fugitive's ears.

Chris could ride well. Many a leading race he had indulged in against
Ned on the open prairie-like land long before this expedition, while
since then the tedium of their journey had often been lightened by a mad
gallop, as much enjoyed by the steeds as by those they bore swiftly
along over the level sands; but the boy had never ridden before as he
rode now. For he seemed to form part and parcel of the wiry little
mustang, as he leaned over towards its straining neck to pat and caress
and now and then twine the thick hairs of the mane about the fingers of
his right-hand, the left that still held the rein allowing it to flap
lower against the neck, while each pat and caress was responded to by a
snort.

That seemed no time for thinking, but Chris thought hard--harder than he
had ever thought before. He was not afraid, for there was a strange
feeling of excitement, a wild thrill of exhilaration, accompanying the
race, which made him long once more to shout aloud. For himself he
thought nothing, but his thoughts were of his father, and the a