"Pretty close," he said. "Come on as cautious as you can. The reservation's not far away, and we don't want them to get there much before us."
They rode a little more slowly; but when the rattle of wheels and thud of hoofs grew sharply distinct in another lull, the man struck his horse.
"They've heard us!" he cried. "We've got to run them down!"
George urged his beast, and there was a crackle of brush about him as the black trees streamed past. The thrill of the pursuit possessed him; after weeks of patient labor, he felt the exhilaration of the wild night ride. The trail, he knew, was riddled here and there with gopher holes and partly grown with brush that might bring his horse down, but this did not count. He was glad, however, that the teamster was behind him, because he could see the dim gap ahead between the mass of trees, and he thought that it was rapidly becoming less shadowy. The sound of hoofs and wheels was growing louder; they were coming up with the fugitives.
"Keep them on the run!" gasped the man behind. "If one of us gets thrown, the other fellow will hold right on!"
A few minutes later George's horse plunged with a crash through a break.
"We're off the trail!" his companion cried. "Guess it switches round a sloo!"
They floundered through crackling brushwood until they struck the track, and afterward rode furiously to make up the lost time, with the sound of wheels leading them on. Then in the gap before them they saw what seemed to be the back of a wagon which, to George's surprise, suddenly disappeared. The next moment a figure carrying something crossed the trail.
"To the right!" cried the teamster.
George did not think his companion had seen the man. He rode after him into the brush, and saw the fellow hurrying through it with a load in his arms. The man looked around. George could dimly make out his dark face; and his figure was almost clear. He was an Indian and unusually tall. Then he plunged into a screen of bushes, and George, riding savagely, drove his horse at the obstacle.