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<SPAN name="chap66"></SPAN> <h3>Chapter Sixty Six.</h3> <h4>The Chase and the Syncope.</h4> <p>I made direct for the cañon whence issued the stream. Its gap grew wider as I approached it—though still appearing only a dark cleft between the rocks, like the entrance to some subterranean passage. I looked forward to it with satisfaction. Its shadowy chasm promised shelter and concealment. When near the entrance of the gorge, I passed the ground where the waggon had been captured. Part of its load—barrels and heavy boxes—were lying upon the sward. They were all broken, and rifled of their contents. The plunder had been carried to the butte. The dead bodies were still there—only those of the white men. I even halted to examine them. They were all stripped of their clothing—all scalped, and otherwise mutilated. The faces of all were blood-bedaubed. Under the red mask I could not have recognised them—even had they been the faces of old friends! There were six of them. Divested of their garments, I could form no conjecture as to who or what they had been—whether teamsters or emigrants, gold-seekers or soldiers. The Mormon could not have been among them: the bodies were all too stout for his; while, on the other hand, there was none of them that could have been mistaken for that of the squatter, Holt. I turned away from the sickening sight, and continued my gallop.</p> <p>My pursuers were a good mile behind me. The sun had already sunk over the crest of the cliffs, and I could just see the mounted savages through the darkling gloom—still fallowing as fast as their horses could gallop. In five minutes after, I had entered the gorge. The twilight continued no longer: in the cañon it was night. I followed the stream upwards, keeping along near the bank. Thick darkness was over and around me; but the gleam of the water and its rippling sound served to guide me on the path. I could not see any track—either of horses or waggons—but I knew they had passed over the ground. There was a narrow strip of bottom land thickly timbered; and an opening through the trees indicated the road that the waggons must have taken. I trusted the trail to my horse. In addition to his keen instinct, he had been trained to tracking; and with his muzzle projected forward and downward—so that his lips almost touched the earth—he lifted the scent like a hound. We could only make progress at a quick walk; but I consoled myself with the thought that my pursuers could go no faster. Seeing how easily I had ridden away from them, they might determine to abandon the pursuit—returning to revenge themselves upon my fellow-captives.</p> <p>About these my mind was filled with, bitter reflections; and strange enough, my strongest sympathies were with. Sure-shot! I could not help thinking that he had sacrificed himself to save me. There could be no doubt of his having done so. He had been offered life, on some traitorous condition, and could have lived. The Indian whom I had hurled over the rocks, if still alive, would explain my escape. The cunning savages would easily understand it. My brave comrade would take my place upon the crucifix?</p> <p>For Wingrove I had less fear. Surely love—even slighted love—would save him from the sacrifice? Yet, after what had occurred, I had but little reason to hope even for him. I could think of but one chance of rescuing them: to overtake the train, and prevail upon the escort to return. I wondered at the dragoons having abandoned the waggon, and left the poor fellows who were with it to their fate! I could only explain such conduct, by supposing that these had been far behind, and that their disaster was still unknown to the people of the caravan. The six men who had fallen might have been the only ones along with the waggon; and their firing, as they defended themselves, might not have been heard? The roar of the water in the cañon might have drowned the reports of their guns; and, as I now listened to its deafening sound, I could believe in this hypothesis.</p> <p>Indulging in such conjectures, I had groped my way some two or three miles up the gorge, when I became sensible of a singular faintness stealing over me. A chill crept through my frame—not like that produced by cold from without; but as if the blood was freezing in my veins! The feeling was accompanied by a sense of torpor and lassitude—like that experienced by one dropping to sleep in a snow-storm. I made an effort to rouse myself—thinking it was sleep that was oppressing me. It might well have been—since it was more than thirty hours since I had slept, and then only for a short while. It occurred to me that, by dismounting and walking for a distance, I might recover warmth and wakefulness. With this design, I alighted from my horse. Once upon the ground, I discovered that I could not walk—that I could not even keep my feet! My limbs tottered under me, as if I had been for months bed-rid. Only by holding on to my horse could I stand erect! What could it mean? My Arab turned his face towards me, as if making the same inquiry! I endeavoured to remount him, but could not. I was unable even to clamber upon his back; and after an unsuccessful effort, desisted—still supporting myself against his body. Had he moved away, at the moment, I should have fallen. And I must have fallen—after my senses left me. In the last gleam of consciousness, I remembered standing by the side of my horse. But I must have fallen: for when thought returned, I found myself upon my back, stretched at full length along the grass!</p> <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />

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