Someone was answering signals flashed from the rocky
point--someone who, though far away, was promising aid.
"Let's be the first to reach them, lads," said Stout, himself a
wearied man. And with that they slowly rose and went stumbling upward.
The prize was worth their every effort, and hope was leading on.
An hour later, with barely half the distance traversed, so steep and
rocky, so wild and winding, was the way, with the sun now tangent to
the distant range afar across the valley, they faintly heard a sound
that spurred them on--two shots in quick succession from unseen
depths below the lofty point. And now they took the Indian jog trot.
There was business ahead.
Between them and that gleaming promontory now lay a comparatively open
valley, less cumbered with bowlders than were the ridges and ravines
through which they had come, less obstructed, too, with stunted trees.
Here was opportunity for horsemen, hitherto denied, and Stout called
on Brewster and his score of troopers, who for hours had been towing
their tired steeds at the rear of column. "Mount and push ahead!" said
he. "You are Wren's own men. It is fitting you should get there
first."
"Won't the captain ride with us--now?" asked the nearest sergeant.
"Not if it robs a man of his mount," was the answer.
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