That party of warriors may have pursued many a man before and may have
caught most of them, but the greatest veteran of them all had never hung
on the trail of such another annoying fugitive. All day he led them in
swift flight toward the south, and at no time was he more than a little
beyond their reach; often they thought their hands were about to close
down upon him, that soon they would enjoy the sight of his writhings
under the fagot and the stake, but always he slipped away at the fatal
moment, and their savage hearts were filled with bitterness that a lone
fugitive should taunt them so. His footsteps were those of the white
man, but his wile and cunning were those of the red, and curiosity was
added to the other motives that drew them on.
At the coming of the twilight one of their best warriors who pursued at
some distance from the main band was slain by a rifle shot from the
bushes, then came that defiant war cry again, faint, but full of irony
and challenge, and then the trail grew cold before them. He whom they
pursued was going now with a speed that none of them could equal, and
the darkness itself, thick and heavy, soon covered all sign of his
flight.
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