"Go!" said Cimarron Bill, in a tone cold as ice. "If the Injun shoots you, we'll riddle this here young gent with bullets."
"Which won't do me good none whatever," muttered Sam; but he knew better than to disobey or hesitate longer, and so, dropping his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, he stepped out and advanced toward the spot where Merriwell had been ensconced behind the boulders.
The brutal band watched and waited. Cimarron Bill surveyed the face of Frank Merriwell, more than half-expecting the youth would call for Sam to come back, knowing the fate that would befall him in case the Indian began to shoot.
But Sam walked straight up to the boulders, clambered onto them, and looked over into the hiding-place that had served Frank so well.
"Derned ef thar's ary livin' critter hyer!" he shouted back.
"Make sure," called the leader, in that metallic[Pg 26] voice of his, which was so hard on the nerves. "Don't make no mistake."
Sam sprang down behind the boulders. They saw his head moving about, but, very soon, he clambered back over them and came walking rapidly away.
"The varmint is sartin gone," he averred.
Immediately Cimarron Bill thrust his cocked revolver against Frank Merriwell's temple.
"Tell us where the Injun is!" he commanded. "Speak quick and straight, or I'll blow the top of your head off!"