“Quiet, boy!” he admonished, in a low whisper.
The sounds approached slowly, halting occasionally. Presently two horsemen rode directly past him on the far side of the cañon. They rode at a brisk trot. Apparently they did not see the pack train, or, if they saw it, they paid no attention to it. They disappeared in the darkness, and the sound of their horses’ hoofs ceased. Pennington knew that they had halted. Who could they be? Certainly not the drivers of the pack train, else they would have stopped with the burros.
He listened intently. Presently he heard horses walking slowly toward him from up the cañon. The two who had passed were coming back—stealthily.
“I sure have got myself in a pretty trap!” he soliloquized a moment later, when he heard the movement of mounted men in the cañon below him.
He drew his gun and sat waiting. It was not long that he had to wait. A voice coming from a short distance down the cañon addressed him.
“Ride out into the open and hold up your hands!” it said. “We got you surrounded and covered. If you make a break, we’ll bore you. Come on, now, step lively—and keep your hands up!”
It was the voice of an American.
“Who in thunder are you?” demanded Pennington.
“I am a United States marshal,” was the quick reply.
Pennington laughed. There was something convincing in the very tone of the man’s voice—possibly because Custer had been expecting to meet Mexicans. Here was a hoax indeed; but evidently as much on the newcomers as on himself. They had expected to find a lawbreaker. They would doubtless be angry when they discovered that they had been duped.