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Updated: May 10, 2025
He was both hungry and thirsty, but not to a very great degree, and as his companions said nothing about eating or drinking, he made up his mind to wait until the morrow. It was about an hour before he became entirely unconscious, but when he shut his eyes they were not opened until morning. Before that time, however, Tom Hardynge became involved in a little difficulty.
When Tom Hardynge announced that they had passed through this spur of mountains, the three instinctively turned their eyes to the westward, where the prairie stretched away until it vanished in the gloom. "There's a clean hundred miles or more of level plain," added the hunter. "I've traveled it many a time and I ought to know." "You're right," said Dick.
But Tom Hardynge had been there before, and insisted each time there was some way out of the difficulty without turning back. Dismounting from his animal he groped around for a few minutes in the dark, and on every occasion called out in an undertone that he had found the path. In this manner they kept it up for a couple of hours, when the route became much more easy to travel.
Consequently, it became not a question of fleetness; for, if it were, the hunters could afford to have very little apprehension over the result; but Tom Hardynge was well convinced that the Apaches, to the number of a hundred or more, were distributed at different points, and on the lookout for them. Indeed, he had already seen such evidence of the fact that it could not be doubted.
There came a blinding flash, then a report and a cry, almost together, and Tom Hardynge seemed to leap up from the ground as if a bomb had exploded beneath him, and, dashing toward the mustang, seized his rein and vaulted upon his back before the animal really knew what had taken place. It was a daring deed, but it succeeded to perfection.
"I hear it," added the scout, as he dismounted and applied his ear to the ground. "What do you make it?" inquired Dick. "Can't tell." Hardynge remained standing beside his steed for several minutes, looking off to the southward, and then he knelt down and bent his ear to the ground again.
From my encounter with my bookseller I went straight home and took down my favorite copy of the "Decameron" and thumbed it over very tenderly; for you must know that I am particularly attached to that little volume. I can hardly realize that nearly half a century has elapsed since Yseult Hardynge and I parted.
Turning again, the lad ran with all speed to his "headquarters," where he flung down his torch and caught up his gun. "Now I think I've got time to load it," he said, as he began the operation at once, a little alarmed, however, to discover that the supply of ammunition furnished him by Tom Hardynge was growing alarmingly small.
Long and hard rode Tom Hardynge after his escape from the beleaguring Apaches, for he was determined to save Ned and Dick if the thing were within the range of human possibility. His mustang seemed to understand what was expected of him, and he required no urging from his master to maintain his arrowy flight. It was a literal race between life and death.
"Don't get scart, my boy," returned Tom Hardynge. "We'll take care of you." He much preferred that they should all take care of themselves by giving their animals the rein and permitting the Apaches to make no nearer approach. But the scouts were obstinate and remained as motionless as statues.
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