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<h3>Chapter Fifty Three.</h3> <h4>A Bit of Blue Sky.</h4> The task of getting the mules together was simple enough, the irritable beasts making their usual objections, but following their old leader Skeeter quietly enough in spite of the bell not being in use; and in a short time they were trudging along with their loads down the steep slope till the gulch was reached, and Chris came after them with the ponies, to bring his charge to a halt. “Like to change places, Ned?” he said archly. “No; I’m going to do my part without that.” “Good-bye, Chris, my lad,” said Bourne sadly. “I don’t like going off and leaving you.” “And I don’t like you to go, Mr Bourne,” said Chris, holding out his hand, which was warmly grasped. “Take care of yourself, Ned.” “Yes; and you,” said the boy sadly. The next minute Chris was standing by his mustang’s head, watching the mules file away. “Look at that,” said Chris, as he noted that his charge displayed no desire to follow the mules. “Why, if that old Skeeter isn’t actually sneering at my ponies! He deserves to be kicked for his conceit.” Ned turned to wave his hand just before a bend in the gulch hid the mule-train from sight, and then Chris mounted and rode towards the pointed rock close to which the spring gurgled out of the rock. Here he took the precaution of drinking deeply himself before letting the ponies have their fill of the refreshing water, after which they began grazing in their quiet, inoffensive way, leaving their guardian to his thoughts, which were many and troubled. In the full expectation of hearing shots, Chris spent plenty of time in listening; but no reports reached his ears, and he began thinking of the change from the wild excitement and risk of his position by the barrier a short time before, to the silence and grandeur of the deeply-cut rift in which he now stood. For gloomy and forbidding as the place looked by night, even awful in its black solemnity, it was striking enough now in its effects of brilliant sunshine and shade to make the boy think it was one of the most beautiful places he had ever seen in his life. “What a pity!” he muttered, as he listened to the crop, crop of the ponies. He did not say what was a pity, for the sharp crack of a rifle brought him out of his musings to gaze sharply in the direction of the barrier, far away from where he was waiting, and wondering now whether there was any more fighting on the way. Another sharp crack, and Chris’s excitement increased, as he first looked anxiously at his charges to see if they were startled by the firing. But the ponies did not even lift their heads, but went on browsing upon the green shoots near the spring, while the boy involuntarily dragged his rifle round, ready to throw the sling over his head if the need sprang up for its use. But there was evidently no immediate danger, for quite an hour passed before there was another shot fired to raise the echoes, and this proved to be single. A longer period elapsed before anything more occurred, and twice as long a time passed before there was another. “It’s just as they said,” thought Chris—“a shot or two, just to show the redskins that we’re on the alert.” It was about this time that Chris fancied that the faintness from which he suffered was due to the want of food, and opening his wallet he took out a piece of damper, to find that it ate very sweet with nothing but a few handfuls of water to wash it down. By the time this was finished the sun had sunk far below the rocks on his left, and the dreamy, restful state into which the boy had been falling passed away. For the thoughts that came fast now were beginning to grow troublous. It would not be long before it was night, and with the darkness an exciting time would arrive. Chris thought that the Indians would not wait long before they attacked, and a great anxiety now oppressed him. Would his father think of this and be prepared, or would he wait too long, and then— It was too horrible to think of. Chris all through that afternoon had been suffering from the effect of his exertions, and had sunk into a restful state a long way on to the border which divides wakefulness from sleep; but with the coming of darkness his brain had become active to a painful degree, and but for the stringent orders he had received to be prepared and wait with the ponies, he would have gone forward, sought his father, and told him of his fears. “He’s sure to know better than I do,” cried the boy at last, to comfort himself, but with very poor effect, as he kept his watch till the darkness had seemed to settle down like a flood in the gulch, the ponies had become invisible, and the sky had turned to a dark purple with a few stars dotting it here and there. Half-an-hour now passed, and then the boy’s agonised tension was broken by three shots ringing out almost together. “A volley!” he said aloud, and the words had hardly passed his lips before there was a repetition of the reports. “The other three barrels!” he cried excitedly, and then, speaking as if those of whom he thought were close at hand, “Load, load, load!” he panted. “Oh, quick, quick! They’re coming on!” He waited again, but there was not a sound, and half-an-hour seemed to have passed, during which his busy brain invented a host of horrors, chief among which was that in which he pictured to himself the Indians stealing up to the defenders of the barrier, knife in hand, to spring upon them and massacre all before they could fire another shot in their defence. So horrible became the silence at last that Chris felt that if it lasted much longer he must mount his mustang and ride forward to learn the worst. “Even if they kill me,” he muttered, and he mentally saw himself falling beneath the enemy’s blows. But in response to a desperate effort to recall his duty those thoughts grew dull and distant, and straining his eyes to gaze into the darkness he obeyed a sudden impulse to slip the ponies’ bridles into their mouths, fasten a strap or two, and then tighten the saddle-girths, the animals submitting patiently enough, and allowing themselves to be placed in readiness for a start. “I can’t do anything more,” he said to himself. “Oh, how terribly dark!” Pst! from close at hand, so close to him that the boy started as if he had been stung. “Father!” he whispered. “Good lad. Not a word. Are the ponies saddled and bridled?” “Yes, father.” “Right. Now, Griggs—Wilton; take two each, and lead on. Walk with them for the present, and as quietly as you can go. We’ll follow close behind.” No further words were spoken, but there was the sound of hoofs passing over the stony bottom of the gulch, and the next minute Chris and his father, each leading his pony, were walking together side by side, the animals stepping instinctively in the footprints of those in front, and, saving for the faint sound of tramping, the silence seemed to the boy perfectly awful. At last Chris could keep back a question no longer. “The firing, father—I heard two volleys. Were the savages coming on?” “No, but we treated them as if they were, just to show them that we were waiting for an attack, and then came on to join you at once. Now, no more talking; I want to listen till they announce that they are there.” “Will they?” whispered Chris. “They’ll either attack with one of their savage yells, or else give one in their rage when they find that we are gone. That will be the signal for us to mount and ride for our lives. Indians are swift of foot, boy.” It seemed an hour, during which every ear was on the strain, but probably it was not a fourth of that time, before the fierce yell of the savages was heard; but it only reached the fugitives as a faint whisper, followed by another. Fortunately the retiring party had reached where the gulch had opened out, and quite a broad band of brilliant stars was spread overhead from rock-wall to rock-wall, giving sufficient light for the ponies to follow one another in Indian file at a good round trot, which was kept up hour after hour, with intervals of walking and the indulgence now in a little conversation regarding the distance ahead of the mule-train or the possibility of its being missed. But Griggs was positive. “No,” he said, “we can’t have over-run them.” “But have they turned off somewhere? I don’t remember any side valley, but we may have passed one.” “No, we mayn’t, sir,” said Griggs coolly. “We don’t know it—at least, I don’t suppose you did, for I fancy I do—but if the mules had turned off anywhere our clever mustangs would have done the same. They’ve been following the mules’ trail ever since we started.” “What! Impossible in this darkness.” “Think so, sir? Well, suppose you wait and see.” There was silence for awhile, before the doctor rode to the front again to where Chris was now beside Griggs. “We have heard nothing of the enemy,” he said. “No, sir. I’ve listened till it has given me a feeling like toothache.” “Do you think they are on our trail?” “Ah, there I can’t say anything, sir, only that they may be. But if they are, they’re coming on at a regular crawl; I am sure of that.” “How can you be sure?” said the doctor wonderingly. “Because they’ll be, as Indians mostly are when they can’t see their quarry, horribly suspicious of being led into an ambush.” “They did not seem so when they followed you.” “No; they could see me, and they forgot to be in doubt in the heat of the pursuit. But on a night like this, and after the way in which we have shot them down, they are bound to feel their way step by step if they follow at all. Most likely they’ll wait till morning, when they’ll pick up our trail.” “And then?” “Come on as fast as they can run, sir. They won’t ride.” Griggs finished off with a loud chuckle. “Say, Chris,” he added, “won’t they be mad at not being able to get out their ponies!” “I suppose so,” said Chris. “But there’s a good side to everything. It’ll be grand for the poor beasts. They’re ridden nearly to death; now they’ll have a good rest with plenty of fine pasture.” “But about to-morrow, Griggs?” said Chris. “What about to-morrow?” “The Indians may follow us and overtake us on foot.” “Well, if they do, they do, my lad, and at the very worst they may capture some of our stores. But perhaps not. I don’t like being a brute to a dumb beast, but if I’m driven to it I may have to be a bit hard to some of those mules. They can go so fast that no Indian can catch them—if they like.” “Yes?” “Well, as a rule they don’t like.” “That’s the worst of it,” said Chris. “Yes, but this time they’ve got to like; and I know how to make them.” Daybreak at last, and with that dawn all doubts about the mule-convoy were at an end, for the first streaks of dawn showed them about a mile ahead, trudging steadily along, while no broadening of the day, not even the rising of the sun, revealed that for which a most anxious lookout was kept, namely, so many dark dots to indicate that the Indians were on their trail. “I say they won’t come now,” said Griggs decisively. “We’ll halt, sir, at the first water, and have a good rest and feed.” “Will it be safe?” said the doctor. “We must chance that, sir, for the sake of making horse, mule, man and boy fit for what more he has to do.” “Well, perhaps so.” “It won’t be losing time, and the mules and horses have done a good spell of work.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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