“Waste time,” declared the Indian. “Might been catched.”
“He was sound asleep in his bed. I could see his form under the clothes, but I could not hear him breathing. I got out just as quick as I could.”
“Now we get away,” said the Indian. “Get good start before morning.”
He had a rifle in his hands, while his old blanket was folded and fastened on his shoulders, so that he was in marching-trim.
“I’m ready,” said the boy. “I’ll follow you, Joe.”
“Come.”
The Indian started, with the boy at his heels, but as they passed round the rock they were amazed to see standing before them a silent figure in the moonlight—a man, with his arms folded over his breast.
Dick gave a little cry, while Old Joe stopped, half-lifting his rifle.
“Good evening,” said a pleasant voice. “Isn’t it rather late for a moonlight stroll?”
Frank Merriwell stood there before them!