“No come back,” declared Old Joe Crowfoot, solemnly. “No see you some more. By-by.”
An expression of deep sadness and regret was on his wrinkled old face as he uttered the words. Merry laughed lightly, and they rode past him and headed onward into the valley.
“He was very anxious to stop us,” said Hodge.
“That’s right,” nodded Frank. “He was altogether too anxious. As soon as I tumbled to that I decided to take a look into the valley. Do you know, we stumbled on the entrance to this valley by accident. I fancy we might search a week for it, if we were to go away now, without finding it.”
“I was thinking of that,” said Bart. “It might puzzle us to find it again. Perhaps that old duffer was counting on that. Those red dogs are treacherous, and——”
They heard a sharp cry behind them. Whirling in the saddle, Frank saw the old Indian standing with the butt of his rifle pressed against his shoulder.
The muzzle on the rifle was turned directly toward Frank, and plainly the redskin was on the point of pressing the trigger.
Frank knew he was in deadly peril, and he would have attempted to fling himself from the saddle but for something else he saw.
On a mass of jagged rocks behind the Indian and about twenty feet above his head had appeared a boy. Not over thirteen years of age was the lad, whose curly, dark hair fell upon his shoulders. He was dressed in fanciful garments, like those worn by a young Mexican lad, and the bright colors of his clothes made him a picturesque figure.
Plainly it was from his lips that the cry had issued.