“He is trying to frighten us so we’ll not go into the valley,” thought Frank. Aloud he said:
“That’s all right; I’ll take chances. I reckon the two of us will be too much for Mr. Lion.”
“White boy much foolish,” declared the old redskin grimly. “Make big supper for lion. Lion him like white man for supper.”
“And I’ll have the pelt of that lion just as sure as I live,” said Merry, as if in sudden determination. “Come on, Bart!”
The old Indian rose quickly as they were about to start forward.
“Stop!” he cried. “Ole Joe Crowfoot him tell you truth. If you go in there you never come back some more. Ole Joe Crowfoot him good Injun—him like white man heap much. No want to see um hurt. Tell um to stay back.”
The old savage seemed deeply in earnest now, but that earnestness was something that added to Frank’s suspicions and made him all the more determined to go on.
“That’s all right,” said Merry, with a grim smile. “It’s kind of you to take so much interest in us, but we’re going after your heap bad lion, and we’ll have his pelt.”
“Night come soon,” said the Indian, with a motion toward the range on range of mountains rising to the westward. “Then lion him crouch and spring. Him git you quick.”
“We’ll see. If you wait round here long enough we’ll show you the pelt of your bad lion when we come back.”