“Come this way, where you see the branch shaking. It is a friend. Frank, the boy you met in the Grand Canyon. I want to talk with you.”
Soft as the words were spoken, they reached the ear of the Indian. He immediately gained his feet. There was no such thing as fear about Havasupai, for without the slightest hesitation he started directly toward the spot where the quivering branch guided his steps.
Then a figure rose up to meet him as he entered the dense shadows. He recognized Frank, and put out his dusky and withered palm with the Indian salutation.
“Speak in a whisper, chief,” Frank said, as he took the hand of the Moqui; “for we don’t want the rustlers to know we are here. They have stolen my father’s cattle, and we have come to get them back, even if we have to fight for them.”
The old Indian grunted. Evidently he could easily comprehend the situation; for he must know what occupation the man followed who had carried his daughter away from the lodges of her people, and now refused to let him see her face for the very last time.
He had already seen that there were many others in hiding close by, men who were dressed as cattle drivers, and who carried arms which they evidently knew how to use.
“Perhaps you can help us, Chief,” Frank went on; and from this Bob knew that it was about this matter his chum and the colonel had been whispering.
“Ugh! Frank much friend Havasupai, long go. Not forget. How can help?” was what the old Moqui said.
“We heard what the rustler said to you,” Frank went on eagerly, though carefully. “He scorns you because your people have sent you out to die like a dog or a coyote. Help us to trap
Mendoza and his men. We would shut them up in the cabins while we run off our stock. And as you are allowed in the camp, you might be of great help to us. Will you do it, Havasupai? If we win out, my father says he will look after you, and see to it that you find Antelope again.”