smoke--and then?

The pursued men stayed not to reflect further. Delay would only add to
their danger; and with this thought urging them on, they wheeled their
horses to the left, and headed along the line of the bluff. Six seconds
after they were riding in a pure atmosphere, under clear dazzling
sunlight.

But it gave them no delight. A yell from the savages told them they
were seen, and simultaneously with the shout, they perceived a score of
horsemen spurring from the crowd, and riding at full speed towards them.

They were both splendidly mounted, and might still have had a fair
chance of escape; but now another sight met their eyes that once more
almost drove them to despair.

A promontory of the cliff, stretching far out over the sandy plain, lay
directly in their track. Its point was nearer to the pursuers than to
them. Before they could reach, and turn it, their retreat would be
intercepted.

Was there still a chance to escape in the opposite direction?

Again suddenly turning, they galloped back as they had come; again
entered the belt of smoke; and, riding on through it, reached the clear
sunlight beyond.

Again a torturing disappointment. Another promontory--twin to the
first--jutted out to obstruct them.

There was no mystery in the matter. They saw the mistake they had made.
In escaping under cover of the cloud they had gone too far, ridden
direct into a deep embayment of the cliff!

Their pursuers, who had turned promptly as they, once more had the
advantage. The outlying point of rocks was nearer to them, and they
would be almost certain to arrive at it first.

To the fugitives there appeared no alternative but to ride on, and take
the chance of hewing their way through the savages surrounding--for
certainly they would be surrounded.

"Git your knife riddy, Frank!" shouted Wilder, as he dug his heels into
his horse's side and put the animal to full speed. "Let's keep close
thegither--livin' or dead, let's keep thegither!"

Their steeds needed no urging. To an American horse accustomed to the
prairies there is no spur like the yell of an Indian; for he knows that
along with it usually comes the shock of a bullet, or the sting of a
barbed shaft.

Both bounded off together, and went over the soft sand, silent, but
swift as the wind.

In vain. Before they could reach the projecting point, the savages had
got up, and were clustering around it. At least a score, with spears
couche