“Well, you must go from here, to him, as speedily as possible. Tell him that the time has come when he can strike the blow. Tell him that his white father asks the aid of his strong arm. Or stay—I can do better than that. See—Chigilli gave this to me. It is his totem; this border is made from sacred wampum. Give this to him and bid him follow you. Lead him and his band here. When you come I will have all in readiness for the blow. You shall have Mary Colton—though she is one of the accursed, I spare her life, because I know that as _your_ slave, her life will be worse than death.” “You are complimentary,” muttered the outlaw, in a slightly bitter tone. “I speak the truth. But let that pass. You must go now. You have not forgotten any of my instructions? You remember the rendezvous?” “I forget nothing. But how am I to go? On your horse?” “No. I may have use for him. But our young friend left his horse staked out upon the prairie above. Take it—that will be the easiest way to dispose of it, to keep it from telling troublesome tales. Ride out from the _baranca_ until you strike ground that will take and hold a trail, then round the head of the ravine. After that do not spare the brute. Horse-flesh is cheap, and Chigilli will furnish you with a remount.” “But why—” “For this reason. If this Ned Campbell is missed—which of course will be the case—search will be made for him. His horse’s trail will be struck here. As it leads, so will they follow, and play into our hands by meeting you half-way. In that case, you know what to do. The Kiowas are eager for scalps. Let them take all they can—only tell Chigilli that he must bring me Hawksley a _prisoner_. You understand?” “Yes.” “Good. Now go and ride for life. By nightfall you can reach the rendezvous—by day-dawn you should be well on your road back here.” But few more words were spoken, and James Mestayer left the strange retreat, and, after first cautiously scouring the surrounding prairie, dragged himself over the escarpment. After some little trouble, he secured the suspicious horse, and literally obeying the old man’s instructions, soon rounded the _baranca’s_ head, then galloping swiftly away toward the west. Hour after hour throughout that long day, he urged on the big horse, plying the spurs heavily and mercilessly, with only a few brief intervals for breathing his steed. Nowhere in the world are such reckless riders as in the Texan prairies, or among the cattle-districts of Kansas. Nowhere is so little regard paid to the life of a horse. I know of one instance where a young man, naturally generous, affectionate and kind-hearted, on a two days’ trip rode three ponies until they dropped dead under the saddle. And this with no more urgent cause than that he was eager to meet with his relatives after a nine months’ sojourn herding cattle in lower Kansas. In forty hours—two days and one night—he rode three hundred and seventy-odd miles.