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In the Pecos Country

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<h2> CHAPTER XIX. THE MYSTERIOUS PURSUER </h2> Young Munson made a sudden bound outward, and, just as he did so, a mass of rock weighing fully a dozen tons, fell upon the precise spot where he had stood, missing him so narrowly that the blast of wind, or rather concussion of the air, was plainly felt. The boulder broke into several pieces, its momentum being so terrific that the ground for several feet around was jarred as if by an earthquake. The lad was overcome for a moment or two, for he realized how narrow his escape was from a terrible and instantaneous death. “That was a little closer than I ever want to come again,” he exclaimed. “It seems to me that a person is always likely to get killed, no matter where he is or what he is doing. I don't suppose that anybody threw that down at me,” he continued, in a half-doubting voice, as he stepped a few paces back and again peered into the gloom. If it had been during the day-time, he might have suspected that some scamp had managed to pry the mass loose, and to send it crashing downward straight for his head. But as the case stood, such a thing could not have taken place. Fred continued his flight until nearly midnight, by which time his fatigue became so great that he began to hunt a place in which to spend the remainder of the night. He had not yet seen any wild animals, and was hopeful that he would suffer no disturbance from them. The single charge of his rifle was to precious to be thrown away upon any such game as that. The lad was in the very act of leaving the ravine, when his step was arrested by a sound too distinct to be mistaken. It was not imagination this time, and he paused to identify it. The sound was faint and of the nature of a jarring or murmur. He suspected that it was caused by horses' hoofs, and he listened but a few minutes when he became certain that such was the fact. “There must be a big lot of them,” he thought, as he listened to the sound growing plainer and plainer every minute. “I wonder if Lone Wolf and his men have not done what they started to do and are going round home again?” Judging from the clamping hoofs, such might have been the case. At all events, there was every reason for believing that a party of horsemen were in the ravine and that they were headed in his direction. Fred made up his mind to wait where he was until they passed by. He had no fear of being seen, when the opportunity for hiding was all that could be desired, and, lying flat upon his face, he awaited the result. Nearer and nearer came the tramp, tramp, the noise of hoofs mingling in a dull thud that sounded oddly in the stillness of the night to the watching and listening lad. “Here they come,” he muttered, before he saw them; but the words were hardly out of his mouth when a shadowy figure came into view, instantly followed by a score of others, all mingling and blending in one indistinguishable mass. The forms of animals and riders were plainly discernible, but they came in too promiscuous fashion to be counted, and they were gone almost as soon as they were seen. Fred was confident that thirty warriors galloped by him in the stillness of the night. “I believe it was Lone Wolf and some of his men,” he muttered, as he clambered down from his place among the rocks. Having been thoroughly awakened by what he had seen, he determined to walk an hour or more longer, for he felt that the best time for him to journey was during the protecting darkness of night. “There ain't anybody to make me get up early,” he reasoned, “and when I go to sleep I can stick to it as long as I want to. It seems to me that if I walk all I can tonight, and keep at it the most of tomorrow, I ought to be somewhere near the place where we came in among these mountains. Then a day or two's tramping over the back trail will take me pretty nearly to New Boston—that is, if nobody gobbles me up. I've got a rough road before me, but God has guided me thus far, and I'll trust him clean through. I've had some wonderful escapes to tell about—” He was too wide awake and too much on the alert to forget precisely where he was, or to fail to take in whatever should occur of an alarming nature. That which now startled him and suddenly cut short his musings was the sound of a horse's hoofs, close behind him. Fred had been duped by his own fears and imaginings so many times that he could not be served so again, and, as he was not apprehending anything of the kind at that moment, there was no possibility of escape from the reality of the sound. He halted and turned his head like lightning, grasping his rifle in his nervous, determined way as he peered back into the gloom, whispering to himself: “That must be Lone Wolf or some of the warriors coming back to look for me.” This was rather vague theorizing, however. Look and stare as much as he chose, he could detect nothing that resembled man or animal. He shrank to one side and waited several minutes, in the hope that the thing would explain itself. But it did not, and, after waiting some time, he resumed his journey along the ravine, keeping close to the shadow on the right side, and using eyes and ears to guard against the insidious approach of any kind of foe. Sometimes, under such circumstances, when a sound has very nearly or quite died out In the stillness, there seems to come a peculiar eddy or turn of wind, or that which causes the sound, passes for an instant at a point which is so situated as to impel the waves of air directly to the ear of the listener. Fred did not exactly understand how this thing could happen, but he had known of something of the kind, and he was gradually bringing himself to explain the thing in that fashion, when his theory was upset by such a sudden, violent rattling of hoofs, so close behind him, that he leaped to one side, fearful of being trampled upon. “That's a pretty way to come upon a fellow!” he gasped, whirling about with the purpose of shooting the red-skin for his startling introduction. But neither rider nor horseman was visible. The watcher could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses. It seemed to him that the Apache, as he believed him to be, must have turned abruptly aside, into some opening in the side of the ravine, but he could not remember having seen any place that would admit of such strategy. When he came to reflect upon it, it seemed impossible. “Well, that beats everything,” he said, with a perplexed sigh. “That sounded so close that I expected to be run over before I could get out of the way, and now he's gone.” He waited some minutes, and, hearing and seeing nothing, once more resumed his stealthy way along the gorge, a new, shivering fear gradually creeping over him, as it does over anyone who suspects himself in the presence of the unexplainable and unnatural. “I wonder whether they have ghosts in this part of the world?” he said to himself. “I used to hear the men talk of such things, but father said there was nothing in them, and so I didn't believe them—but I don't know what father would say or think if he was in my place.” There was the strong counter-belief, also—the conviction that most likely there was a reality about the thing—which kept Fred on the qui vive. He was determined, if possible, to prevent a repetition of the startling surprise of a few minutes before. He scrutinized the side of the ravine as he walked along, on the lookout for any opening or crevice which would permit a man and a horse to find shelter. It did not seem possible that any retreat that would shelter them could escape the eyes of the lad. “I haven't seen any such place yet, so, if the Indian is trying any such trick, he can't do it here without my seeing him, and if I do—Heaven save me!” He sprang to one side, again pressing himself back against the rock, as though trying to flatten his body there in order to escape the trampling hoofs. At the same time he cocked his rifle, with the purpose of giving the finishing touch to the Apache who had alarmed him once too often in this fashion. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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