We knew that with a bare foot he
could make little progress. We could see, however by the long jumps he
was taking, that he was making excellent time. Soon the trail became
spotted with blood, where the thorns of the prickly pear had pierced
his shoeless foot.
After a run of twelve miles we saw Bevins crossing a ridge two miles
ahead. We reached the ridge just as he was descending the divide toward
the South Platte, which at this point was very deep and swift.
If he got across the stream he stood a good chance of escape. We pushed
our horses as fast as possible, and when we got within range I told him
to halt or I would shoot. He knew I was a good shot, and coolly sat
down to wait for us.
"Bevins, you gave us a good chase," I said, as we rode up.
"Yes," he returned calmly, "and if I'd had fifteen minutes' more start
and got across the Platte you'd never have caught me."
Bevins's flight was the most remarkable feat of its kind I have ever
heard of. A man who could run barefooted in the snow through a
prickly-pear patch was surely a "tough one." When I looked at the man's
bleeding foot I really felt sorry for him. He asked me for my knife,
and when I gave it to him he dug the thorns out of his foot with its
sharp point. I consider him the gamest man I ever met.
I could not suffer a man with such a foot to walk, so I dismounted, and
he rode my horse back to camp, while Green and I rode the other horse
by turns.
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