Their line of direction had been west of north. Now,
riding like mad, they veered to the northeast, and a grand race was on
between the hidden three and the would-be rescuers;--all heading for
that part of the low-rolling prairie where the lone courier might next
be expected to come into view;--friends and foes alike, unconscious of
the fact that, following one of those crooked arroyos with its stiff and
precipitous banks, he had been turned from his true course full three
quarters of a mile, and now, with a longer run, but a clear field ahead,
was steering straight for Frayne.
Thus the interest of the on-lookers at the bluff became divided. Women
with straining eyes gazed at the lonely courier, and then fearfully
scanned the ridge line between him and the northward sky; praying with
white lips for his safety; dreading with sinking hearts that at any
moment those savage riders should come darting over the divide and
swooping down upon their helpless prey. Men, with eyes that snapped and
fists that clinched, or fingers that seemed twitching with mad desire to
clasp pistol butt or sabre hilt, or loud barking carbine, ran in sheer
nervous frenzy up and down the bluffs, staring only at Blake's
far-distant riders, swinging their hats and waving them on, praying only
for another sight of the Sioux in front of the envied seven, and craving
with all their soldier hearts to share in the fight almost sure to
follow.
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