Shows how the Seaman was sent on a Delicate Mission and how he Fared.  
“Shank,” said Charlie one day as they were sitting in the sunshine near the outlaws’ cave, waiting for Dick and the scout to return to their mid-day meal, “it seems to me that we may be detained a good while here, for we cannot leave Ralph, and it is evident that the poor fellow won’t be able to travel for many a day—”
 
“If ever,” interposed Shank sorrowfully.
 
“Well, then, I think we must send down to Bull’s Ranch, to see if there are any letters for us. I feel sure that there must be some, and the question arises—who are we to send?”
 
“You must not go, Charlie, whoever goes. You are the only link in this mighty wilderness, that connects Ralph and me with home—and hope. Weak and helpless as we are, we cannot afford to let you out of our sight.”
 
“Well, but if I don’t go I can’t see my way to asking the scout to go, for he alone thoroughly understands the ways of the country and of the Indians—if any should chance to come this way. Besides, considering the pledge he is under to be accountable for Buck Tom, I doubt if he would consent to go.”
 
“The question is answered, then,” said Shank, “for the only other man is Dick Darvall.”
 
“True; and it strikes me that Dick will be very glad to go,” returned Charlie with a smile of peculiar meaning.
 
“D’ye think he’s getting tired of us, Charlie?”
 
“By no means. But you know he has a roving disposition, and I think he has a sort of fondness for Jackson—the boss of the ranch.”
 
It was found when the question was put to him, that Dick was quite ready to set out on the mission required of him. He also admitted his fondness for Roaring Bull!
 
“But what if you should lose your way?” asked the scout.
 
“Find it again,” was Dick’s prompt reply.
 
“And what if you should be attacked by Indians?”
 
“Fight ’em, of course.”
 
“But if they should be too many to fight?”
 
“Why, clap on all sail an’ give ’em a starn chase, which is always a long one. For this purpose, however, I would have to command a good craft so I’d expect you to lend me yours, Hunky Ben.”
 
“What! my Polly?”
 
“Even so. Black Polly.”
 
The scout received this proposal gravely, and shook his head at first, for he was naturally fond of his beautiful mare, and, besides, doubted the sailor’s horsemanship, though he had perfect faith in his courage and discretion. Finally, however, he gave in; and accordingly, one fine morning at daybreak, Dick Darvall, mounted on Black Polly, and armed with his favourite Winchester, revolvers, and cutlass, “set sail” down Traitor’s Trap to visit his lady-love!
 
Of course he knew that his business was to obtain letters and gather news. But honest Dick Darvall could not conceal from himself that his main object was—Mary Jackson!
 
Somehow it has come to be supposed or assumed that a jack-tar cannot ride. Possibly this may be true of the class as a whole to which Jack belongs, but it is not necessarily true of all, and it certainly is not true of some. Dick Darvall was an expert horseman—though a sailor. He had learned to ride when a boy, before going to sea, and his after-habit of riding the “white horses” of the Norseman, did not cause him to forget the art of managing the “buckers” of the American plains. To use his own words, he felt as much at home on the hurricane deck of a Spanish pony, as on the fo’c’sl of a man-of-war, so that the scout’s doubt of his capacity as a rider was not well founded.
 
Tremendous was the bound of exultation which our seaman felt, then, when he found himself on the magnificent black mare, with the fresh morning air fanning his temples, and the bright morning sun glinting through a cut in the eastern range.
 
Soon he reached the lower end of the valley, which, being steep, he had descended with tightened rein. On reaching the open prairie he gave the mare her head and went off with a wild whoop like an arrow from a bow.
 
Black Polly required neither spur nor whip. She possessed that charmingly sensitive spirit which seems to receive an electric shock from its rider’s lightest chirp. She was what you may call an anxiously willing steed, yet possessed such a tender mouth that she could be pulled up as easily as she could be made to go. A mere child could have ridden her, and Dick found in a few minutes that a slight check was necessary to prevent her scouring over the plains at racing speed. He restrained her, therefore, to a grand canter, with many a stride and bound interspersed, when such a thing as a rut or a little bush came in her way.
 
With arched neck, glistening eyes, voluminous mane, and flowing tail she flew onward, hour after hour, with many a playful shake of the head, and an occasional snort, as though to say, “This is mere child’s play; do let me put on a spurt!”
 
It may not be fair to credit such a noble creature with talking, or even thinking, slang, but Dick Darvall clearly understood her to say something of the sort, for after a while he reduced speed to a kind of india-rubber walk and patted her neck, saying—
 
“No, no, lass, you mustn’t use up your strength at the beginning. We’ve got a longish trip before us, Polly, an’ it won’t do to clap on all sail at the beginnin’ of the voyage.”
 
At David’s store Dick stopped for a short time to obtain a little refreshment for himself and Polly. There he found a group of cow-boys discussing the affairs of their neighbours, and enlarging noisily on things in general under the brain-clearing and reason-inspiring influence of strong drink! To these he recounted briefly the incidents of the recent raid of the troops into Traitor’s Trap, and learned that Jake the Flint had “drifted south into Mexico where he was plying the trade of cattle and horse stealer, with the usual accompaniments of that profession—fighting, murdering, drinking, etcetera.” Some of the deeds of this notorious outlaw, as narrated by the cow-boy Crux, who happened to be there, made the blood of Dick run cold—and Dick’s blood was not easily made to run otherwise than naturally by any one—except, of course, by Mary Jackson, who could at all events make it run hot, also fast or slow, very much according to her own sweet will!
 
But the seaman had no time to lose. He had still a long way to go, and the day was advancing. Remounting Black Polly he was soon out again on the prairie, sweeping over the grassy waves and down into the hollows with a feeling of hilarious jollity, that was born of high health, good-nature, pleasant circumstances, and a free-and-easy mind.
 
Nothing worthy of particular notice occurred after this to mar the pleasure of our sailor’s “voyage” over the prairie until he reached a belt of woodland, through which for half a mile he had to travel. Here he drew rein and began to traverse the bit of forest at a quiet amble, partly to rest Polly, and partly that he might more thoroughly enjoy the woodland scenery through the umbrageous canopy of which the sun was sending his slanting rays and covering the sward with a confused chequer-work of green and gold.
 
And here Dick Darvall became communicative; entered into conversation, so to speak, with himself. After a few minutes, however, this did not prove a sufficient outlet to his exuberant spirits.
 
“Come, Dick,” he exclaimed, “give us a song. Your voice ain’t, perhaps, much to speak of as to quality, but there’s no end of quantity. Strike up, now; what shall it be?”
 
Without replying to the question he struck up “Rule Britannia” in tones that did not justify his disparaging remark as to quality. He reached the other end of the wood and the end of the song at the same time. “Britons,” shouted he with unalterable determination—“Never, never, ne–ever, shall be—Redskins!”
 
This unnatural termination was not an intentional variation. It was the result of a scene that suddenly burst upon his view.
 
Far away on the prairie two riders were seen racing at what he would have styled a slant away from him. They were going at a pace that suggested fleeing for life.
 
“Redskins—arter somethin’,” murmured Dick, pulling up, and shading his eyes from the sun with his right hand, as he gazed earnestly at the two riders.
 
“No–n–no. They’re whites,” he continued, “one o’ them a man; t’other a woman. I can make that out, anyhow.”
 
As he spoke, the racing riders topped a far-off knoll; halted, and turned round as if to gaze back towards the north—the direction from which they had come. Then, wheeling round as if in greater haste than ever, they continued their headlong gallop and disappeared on the other side of the knoll.
 
Dick naturally turned towards the north to see, if possible, what the two riders were flying from. He was not kept long in doubt, for just then a band of horsemen was seen topping the farthest ridge in that direction, and bearing down on the belt of woodland, along the edge of which they galloped towards him.
 
There was no mistaking who they were. The war-whoop, sounding faint and shrill in the distance, and the wild gesticulations of the riders, told the story at once to our seaman—two pale-faces, pursued by a band of bloodthirsty savages!
 
Unskilled though he was in backwoods warfare, Dick was not unfamiliar with war’s alarms, nor was he wanting in common sense. To side with the weaker party was a natural tendency in our seaman. That the pursuers were red, and the pursued white, strengthened the tendency, and the fact that one of the latter was a woman settled the question. Instantly Dick shook the reins, drove his unarmed heels against the sides of Polly, and away they went after the fugitives like a black thunderbolt, if there be such artillery in nature!
 
A wild yell told him that he was seen.
 
“Howl away, ye land lubbers!” growled Dick. “You’ll have to fill your sails wi’ a stiffer breeze than howlin’ before ye overhaul this here craft.”
 
Just then he reached the crest of a prairie billow, whence he could see the fugitives still far ahead of him. Suddenly a suspicion entered the seaman’s mind, which made his heart almost choke him. What if this should be Mary Jackson and her father? Their relative size countenanced the idea, for the woman seemed small and the man unusually large.
 
In desperate haste Dick now urged on his gallant steed to her best pace, and well did she justify the praises that had been often bestowed on her by Hunky Ben. In a very brief space of time she was close behind the fugitives, and Dick was now convinced that his suspicions as to who they were was right. He rode after them with divided feelings—tremblingly anxious lest Mary should fall into the hands of their ruthless foes—exultantly glad that he had come there in time to fight, or die if need be, in her defence.
 
Suddenly the male fugitive, who had only glanced over his shoulder from time to time, pulled up, wheeled round, and quickly raised his rifle.
 
“Hallo! get on, man; don’t stop!” Dick yelled, in a voice worthy of Bull himself. Taking off his hat he waved it violently above his head. As he spoke he saw the woman’s arm flash upwards; a puff of smoke followed, and a bullet whistled close over his head.
 
Next moment the fugitives had turned and resumed their headlong flight. A few more minutes sufficed to bring Dick and the black mare alongside, for the latter was still vigorous in wind and limb, while the poor jaded animals which Mary and her father rode were almost worn out by a prolonged flight.
 
“Dick Darvall,” exclaimed Jackson, as the former rode up, “I never was gladder to see any man than I am to see you this hour, though but for my Mary I’d surely have sent you to kingdom come. Her ears are better than mine, you see. She recognised the voice an’ knocked up my rifle just as I pulled the trigger. But I’m afeared it’s too late, lad.”
 
The way in which the man said this, and the look of his pale haggard face, sent a thrill to the heart of Dick.
 
“What d’ye mean?” he said, looking anxiously at Mary, who with a set rigid expression on her pale face was looking straight before her, and urging her tired pony with switch and rein.
 
“I mean, lad, that we’ve but a poor chance to reach the ranch wi’ such knocked-up brutes as these. Of course we can turn at bay an’ kill as many o’ the red-devils as possible before it’s all over wi’ us, but what good would that do to Mary? If we could only check the varmins, there might be some hope, but—”
 
“Jackson!&rdquo............