“What is it?” asked Nestor, viewing with alarm the look of fear on the hunter’s face.
“Indians!” was the answer.
“You don’t mean real Indians?”
“That’s what I do. There’s a reservation of some kind about fifty miles from here, and they break loose every now and again.”
“What makes you think some are loose now?”
“Hear ’em yellin’ an’ screechin’!” said the hunter, raising his hand to caution silence.
Straining their ears the adventurers noted the faint sound of some weird chant borne to them on the east wind. Then, as they watched, they saw, coming over the slope of the hill, a band of redskins, mounted on ponies.
“Hurry to the auto!” cried Ned.
He ran for the machine, followed by Jerry and Bob. Broswick picked up his gun and looked to the loading of it, as Nestor did to his revolvers, but neither of the men offered to retreat. Professor Snodgrass was intent on capturing some kind of grasshoppers, and did not seem to care whether there were Indians about or not. More and more of the savages came into view.