“Oh, you dear, good fellow!” she cried, once more like a girl. “I could hug you for that!”
“Don’t do it!” warned John Swiftwing, hoarsely. “I might change my mind!”
She waved her handkerchief, and the black speck on the plain fluttered something white. The black speck was moving, and dust arose in a tiny cloud behind it.
“He has seen us,” said the Indian. “Come on; we will go down.”
He led her to the horse and lifted her upon the animal’s back. Then he led the horse down the mountain to meet the trailer.
The sun was low when they met. Frank Merriwell had a rifle in his hands, and it was aimed straight at the Indian’s heart.
“Up with your hands, Swiftwing!” he ordered, sternly. “Don’t try anything crooked, for a hundred armed men are coming behind me, and they have sworn to hunt you down like a dog.”
The redskin smiled scornfully.
“If they were a thousand it would make no difference,” he said. “They could not find me. I will not put up my hands, Merriwell, so shoot if you wish!”
“Don’t shoot, Frank!” screamed Inza. “He saw you coming, and he brought me to meet you!”