Vaulting into the saddle, he again stretched out, and now skirted along the margin of a wood which seemed to mark the position of a river of considerable size.
At this moment his horse put his foot into a badger-hole, and both of them came heavily to the ground.

In an instant Dick rose, picked up his gun, and leaped unhurt into the saddle.

But on urging his poor horse forward he found that its shoulder was badly sprained.
There was no room for mercy, however--life and death were in the balance--so he plied the lash vigorously, and the noble steed warmed into something like a run, when again it stumbled, and fell with a crash on the ground, while the blood burst from its mouth and nostrils.

Dick could hear the shout of triumph uttered by his pursuers.
"My poor, poor horse!" he exclaimed in a tone of the deepest commiseration, while he stooped and stroked its foam-studded neck.
The dying steed raised its head for a moment, it almost seemed as if to acknowledge the tones of affection, then it sank down with a gurgling groan.
Dick sprang up, for the Indians were now upon him, and bounded like an antelope into the thickest of the shrubbery; which was nowhere thick enough, however, to prevent the Indians following.

Still, it sufficiently retarded them to render the chase a more equal one than could have been expected.