“Frank!”
“Are you with me?”
Merry had risen. Hodge leaped to his feet. Their hands met, as Bart exclaimed:
“To the end, through thick and thin!”
CHAPTER IX.
THE OLD INDIAN.
Before them lay the mighty Rockies, rising range on range, till their glittering, snow-capped summits pressed the sky. Wild and picturesque and awe-inspiring was the scene. They were in the foot-hills, and the country was rough and broken.
Frank had drawn rein at the mouth of what seemed to be a small valley. He was covered with dust, and the hardy mustang he bestrode showed signs of weariness.
Merriwell was clothed to rough it, having exchanged the garments of the cities and towns for those more suited to the latter stages of his search for the cabin of Juan Delores. On his head was a wide-brimmed felt hat, and he wore a woolen shirt, with a side collar and a flowing tie, a cartridge-belt about his waist, and leather leggings covered his trousers nearly to his thighs. There were spurs on the heels of his boots. His coat he had stripped off, for the day was warm to an uncomfortable degree.
A Winchester repeating rifle was slung at the pommel of Merry’s saddle, and a pair of long-barreled revolvers rested in the holsters on his hips. Taken altogether, he looked like a young man who had made preparations for almost anything he might encounter.
Bart Hodge, similarly mounted and dressed, had drawn up beside Frank.