“Look again, Frank!”
“Yes, I see another man has started out after him; and as sure as you live, Bob, we ought to know that figure.”
“It looks like an Indian to me,” whispered the Kentucky lad.
“It is an Indian, and one belonging to the Moqui tribe up near the Grand Canyon, too. Look again, Bob. What do you say now?”
“I declare, that’s queer!” said the other.
“Then you think you know him, do you, Bob?”
“But what could old Havasupai be doing down here among the rustlers, when we left him headed back for his village?” Bob ventured.
“Stop and think again, Bob. You remember when we first made his acquaintance the old fellow was about to steal one of our horses. When we caught him he claimed that he was fleeing from his people because he had done something that made him an outcast. Perhaps when he went back they kicked him out again; and in the end he’s just fallen in with these wild rustlers.”
“But it’s old Havasupai as sure as anything, Frank!”
“That goes; but drop out now, Bob, you’re getting too close for us to whisper any more. Just keep your ears open, and perhaps we’ll hear something worth while that may explain things. Silence now, Bob.”