her story, which
she did, and it showed she was a woman of grit and education.

"She said the Ingins what had captured her took her up to their camp on
the Saw Log, a little creek north of Fort Dodge--you all know where
it is--and there she staid that night. Early in the morning they all
started for the north. She watched their ponies mighty close as they
rid along that day, so as to find out which was the fastest; for she had
made up her mind to make her escape the first chance she got. She looked
at the sun once in a while, to learn what course they was taking; so
that she could go back when she got ready, strike the Sante Fe Trail,
and get to some ranch, as she had seen several while passing through the
foot-hills of the Raton Range when she was with the Mexican train.

"It was on the night of the fourth day after they had left Saw Log,
and had rid a long distance--was more than a hundred miles on their
journey--when she determined to try and light out. The whole camp was
fast asleep, for the Ingins was monstrous tired. She crawled out of the
lodge where she'd been put with some old squaws, and going to where the
ponies had been picketed, she took a little iron-gray she'd had her eye
on, jumped on his back, with only the lariat for a bridle and without
any saddle, not even a blanket, took her bearings from the north star,
and cautiously moved out. She started on a walk, until she'd got 'bout
four miles from camp, and then struck a lope, keeping it up all night.
By next morning she'd made some forty miles, and then for the first time
since she'd left her lodge, pulled up and looked back, to see if any of
the Ingins was following her. When she seen there wasn't a living thing
in sight, she got off her pony, watered him out of a small branch, took
a drink herself, but not daring to rest yet, mounted her animal again
and rid on as fast as she could without wearing him out too quickly.

"Hour after hour she rid on, the pony appearing to have miraculous
endurance, until sundown. By that time she'd crossed the Saline, the
Smoky Hill, and got to the top of the divide between that river and the
Arkansas, or not more than forty miles from the Santa Fe Trail. Then her
wonderful animal seemed to weaken; she couldn't even make him trot, and
she was so nearly played out herself, she could hardly set steady. What
to do, she didn't know. The pony was barely able to move at a slow walk.
She was afraid he would drop dead under her, a