“Don’t say any thing to me, Myrtle, fur I ain’t in good humer,” he said in an almost angry tone. “I never thought you a flirt before, but ef you drive away Dave Farrell, you drive away the best man in the mount’ins, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Has he gone?” she said anxiously.
“He’s out thar in the pass. And stranger, I warn you to keep out of his way, because he ain’t in a heavenly temper. Hark!”
Swift steps were heard, the door was flung open, and Dave rushed into the room, pale and nearly breathless with a long arrow sticking in his shoulder. “Indians!” he gasped. “Get Myrtle out of the way, quick!”
CHAPTER IV.
WHIRLWIND.
With the cat-like quickness which he always showed in moments of danger, Old Pegs sprung to the door and dropped the heavy bars in their places, while Myrtle closed and barred the blinds. It was not done a moment too soon, for they heard the rapid beat of hoofs and could tell by the sounds that a large party of Indians were in the valley. Rafe Norris stepped to one of the loop-holes always left when a cabin is built in an Indian country, and looked out and saw that it was the band of Whirlwind.
“Now then, what’s the ticket?” demanded Old Pegs. “Is it going ter be a b’ar-fight?”
“There seems to be no other course,” replied Norris.
“Oh, yes, thar is,” replied the old hunter. “I’ve got more than one string to my bow, and we kin fight or hide, jest ez you like.”
“My plan would be to get the lady into the hiding-place you speak of, and then teach these Indians what it means to attack three well-armed white men.”