Closing the boughs again, Henry opened them in an opposite direction
and crept softly up to Chiquita, holding out his hand to her. The
docile pony raised her head, and, coming forward, placed her nose in
his palm, submitting to be saddled and bridled without objection or
noise.
Leaping into the saddle, the boy drove his spurs into the animal's
flanks, and was off at a furious run in the direction of Whipple.
Startled by the hoof-beats, the Apaches looked back, and began running
diagonally across the field to try to intercept the boy before he
turned into the direct trail. Arrow after arrow flew after him, one
wounding him in the neck and another in the cheek, and when the
distance began to increase between him and his pursuers and they saw
the boy was likely to get away, one raised his rifle and sent a bullet
after him, which fractured the radius of his left arm.
"Well, Chiquita," said Henry, as he turned fairly into the Prescott
trail and had realized the exact nature of his injuries, "you haven't
got a scratch, and are good for this run if I can hold out.
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