owards the latter part of the time, when Bart had reached a point where
the Apaches gave up their chase, civilisation being too near at hand for
them to venture farther.

On two occasions, though, the lad was in deadly peril; once when,
growing impatient, the Apaches, in hunting fashion, had made a cast or
two to recover the trail they had lost, galloping on some miles, and
taking it up again pretty close to where Bart had been resting again
somewhat too long for safety, though far from being long enough to
recoup the losses he had sustained.

The next time was under similar circumstances, the Apaches picking up
the sign of his having passed over the plain close beside a patch of
rising ground, where he had been tempted into shooting a prong-horn
antelope, lighting a fire, and making a hearty meal, of which he stood
sadly in need.

The meal ended, a feeling of drowsiness came over the feaster, and this
time Bart did not yield to it, for he felt that he must place many more
miles behind him before it grew dark; so, rolling up the horse-hair
lariat by which Black Boy had been tethered, once again he tightened the
girths, and was just giving his final look round before mounting,
congratulating himself with the thought that he had enough good roasted
venison to last him for a couple more days, when his horse pricked his
ears and uttered an impatient snort.

Just at the same moment there was the heavy thud, thud, thud, of horses'
hoofs, and, without stopping to look, Bart swung himself up on his
horse's back and urged him forward with hand, heel, and voice.

The plain before him was as level as a meadow, not a stone being in
sight for miles, so that unless the cob should put his foot in some
burrow, there was nothing to hinder his racing off and escaping by sheer
speed.

There was this advantage too: Black Boy had been having a good rest and
feed, while the pursuers had doubtless been making a long effort to
overtake him.

The Apaches set up a furious yell as they caught sight of their prey,
and urged on their horses, drawing so near before Bart could get
anything like a good speed on, that they were not more than fifty yards
behind, and thundering along as fast as they could urge their ponies.

This went on for half a mile, Bart feeling as if his heart was in his
mouth, and that the chances of escape were all over; but somehow, in
spite of the terrible peril he was in, he thought more about the Doctor
and the fate