It did not take many seconds for both Glen and Nettle to scramble to their feet after the tremendous header caused by the gopher-hole. Badly shaken though he was, the boy managed to regain his saddle more quickly than he had ever done before. But seconds are seconds; and, in so close a race for the most valuable of all earthly prizes, each one might be worth a minute, an hour, or even a lifetime. Glen had not more than regained his seat, before the foremost of his pursuers, who had far outstripped the other, was upon him. With an empty rifle, Glen had not the faintest hope of escape this time, though Nettle sprang bravely forward. He involuntarily cringed from the expected blow, for he had caught a fleeting glimpse of an uplifted tomahawk; but it did not come. Instead of it, he heard a crash, and turned in time to see the Indian pony and its rider pitch headlong, as he and Nettle had done a minute before. They were almost beside him; and, as he dashed away, he was conscious of wondering if they too had fallen victims to an unseen gopher-hole.