Being better mounted,
this officer had distanced his detachment.
Without drawing rein, Michael extended his revolver, and took
a moment's aim. The Usbeck officer, hit in the breast,
rolled on the ground.
But the other horsemen followed him closely, and without waiting
to assist the deh-baschi, exciting each other by their shouts,
digging their spurs into their horses' sides, they gradually
diminished the distance between themselves and Michael.
For half an hour only was the latter able to keep out of range
of the Tartars, but he well knew that his horse was becoming weaker,
and dreaded every instant that he would stumble never to rise again.
It was now light, although the sun had not yet risen above the horizon.
Two versts distant could be seen a pale line bordered by a few trees.
This was the Obi, which flows from the southwest to the northeast,
the surface almost level with the ground, its bed being but
the steppe itself.
Several times shots were fired at Michael, but without hitting him,
and several times too he discharged his revolver on those of
the soldiers who pressed him too closely. Each time an Usbeck
rolled on the ground, midst cries of rage from his companions.
But this pursuit could only terminate to Michael's disadvantage.
His horse was almost exhausted. He managed to reach the bank
of the river. The Usbeck detachment was now not more than fifty
paces behind him.
The Obi was deserted--not a boat of any description which could
take him over the water!
"Courage, my brave horse!" cried Michael.
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