Lahoma | Page 8

his great neck; the yells of rage were in his ears, but he heard
the soft breathing of the little one fast asleep in the midst of her
dangers.
He had selected for himself, and for Gledware, ponies that had often
been run against each other, and which no others of all Red Kimball's

corral could surpass in speed. Gledware and the child were on the pony
that Kimball had once staked against the swiftest animal the Indians
could produce--and Willock rode the pride of the Indian band, which
had almost won the prize. The ponies had been staked on the issue of
that encounter--and the highwaymen had retained, by right of craft and
force, what the government would not permit its wards to barter or sell.
The race was long but always unequal. The ruffians who had dashed
from the scene of the cabin almost in an even line, scattered and
straggled unevenly; now only two were able to send bullets whistling
about Willock's head; now only one found it possible to cover the
distance. At last even he fell out of range. The Indian pony, apparently
tireless, shot on like an arrow driven into the teeth of the wind, sending
up behind a cloud of dust that stretched backward toward the baffled
pursuers, a long wavering ribbon like a clew left to guide the band into
the mysterious depths of the Great American Desert.
When the last of the pursuers found further effort useless, he checked
his horse. Willock now sat erect on the broncho's bare back, lightly
clasping the halter. Looking behind, he saw seven horsemen in varying
degrees of remoteness, motionless, doubtless fixing their wolfish eyes
on his fleeing form. As long as he could distinguish these specks
against the sky, they remained stationary. To his excited imagination
they represented a living wall drawn up between him and the abode of
men. Should he ever venture back to that world, he fancied those seven
avengers would be waiting to receive him with taunts and drawn
weapons.
And his conscience told him that the taunts would be merited, for he
had turned traitor, he had failed in the only virtue on which his fellow
criminals prided themselves. Yes, he was a traitor; and by the only
justice he acknowledged, he deserved to die. But the child who had lain
so trustingly upon his wild bosom, who had clung to him as to a
father--she was safe! An unwonted smile crept under the bristling beard
of the fugitive, as he urged the pony forward in unrelaxing speed.
Should he seek refuge among civilized communities, his crimes would
hang over his head--if not discovered, the fear of discovery would be
his, day and night. To venture into his old haunts in No-Man's Land
would be to expose his back to the assassin's knife, or his breast to
ambushed murderers. He dared not seek asylum among the Indians, for

while bands of white men were safe enough in the Territory, single
white men were at the mercy of the moment's caprice-- and certainly, if
found astride that Indian pony which the agent had ordered restored to
its owner, his life would not be worth a thought.
These were desperate reflections, and the future seemed framed in
solitude, yet Brick Willock rode on with that odd smile about the grim
lips. The smile was unlike him--but, the whole affair was such an
experience as had never entered his most daring fancy. Never before in
his life had he held a child in his arms, still less had he felt the sweet
embrace of peaceful slumber. To another man it might have meant
nothing; but to this great rough fellow, the very sight of whom had
often struck terror to the heart, that experience seemed worth all the
privations he foresaw.
The sun had risen when the pony, after a few tottering steps, suddenly
sank to earth. Willock unfastened the halter from its neck, tied it with
the lariat about his waist, and without pause, set out afoot. If the pony
died from the terrible strain of that unremitting flight, doubtless the
roving Indians of the plains would find it and try to follow his trail; if it
survived he would be safer if not found near it. In either case, swift
flight was still imperative, and the shifting sand, beaten out of shape by
the constant wind, promised not to retain his footprints.
Though stiff from long riding, the change of motion soon brought
renewed vigor. Willock had grown thirsty, and as the sun rose higher
and beat down on him from an unclouded sky, his eyes searched the
plains eagerly for some shelter that promised water. He did not look in
vain. Against the horizon rose the low blue shapes of the