The one thing to do was to get a long way ahead of my pursuers, for surely
at the outset they would stick like hounds to my trail.
A mile or more below the gorge I took to the stream and waded. It was
slippery, dangerous work, for the current tore about my legs and threatened
to upset me. After a little I crossed to the left bank. Here the slope of
the canyon was thick with grass that hid my tracks. It was a long climb up
to the level. Upon reaching it I dropped, exhausted.
"I've--given them--the slip," I panted, exultantly. . . . "But--now what?"
It struck me that now I was free, I had only jumped out of the frying-pan
into the fire. Hurriedly I examined my Winchester. The magazine contained
ten cartridges. What luck that Stockton had neglected to unload it! This
made things look better. I had salt and pepper, a knife, and matches--
thanks to the little leather case--and so I could live in the woods.
It was too late for regrets. I might have freed Dick somehow or even held
the men at bay, but I had thought only of escape. The lack of nerve and
judgment stung me. Then I was bitter over losing my mustang and outfit.
But on thinking it all over, I concluded that I ought to be thankful for
things as they were. I was free, with a whole skin. That climb out of the
gorge had been no small risk.
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