As his mind regained its normal condition there
deepened in his eyes a look of cunning hatred. With difficulty he rose
to his feet and stood facing Cameron. Cameron waited quietly, watching
his every move.
"You go in front!" at length commanded Cameron. "And no nonsense, mind
you," he added, tapping his rifle, "or I shoot quick."
The Indian might not have understood all Cameron's words, but he was in
no doubt as to his meaning. It was characteristic of his race that he
should know when he was beaten and stoically accept defeat for the time
being. Without further word or look he led off his pack ponies, while
Cameron took his place at the rear.
But progress was slow. Little Thunder was either incapable of rapid
motion or sullenly indifferent to any necessity for it. Besides, there
was no demoniacal dynamic forcing the beasts on from the rear. They had
not been more than three hours on the trail when Cameron heard behind
him the thundering of hoofs. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw coming
down upon him Raven, riding as if pursued by a thousand demons. The
condition of his horse showed that the race had been long and hard; his
black satin skin was dripping as if he had come through a river, his
eyes were bloodshot and starting from his head, his mouth was wide open
and from it in large clots the foam had fallen upon his neck and chest.
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