The youth feared that the mustang was trying to return to his master. He, therefore, brought him down to a walk, though he broke into a canter more than once, and leaning forward, peered through the gloom, on the alert for the first sign of danger.
“Uncle Dohm believed the Comanches meant to set fire to the house; if he hadn’t thought so, I wouldn’t have been in this 84 plight; it strikes me that it is about time they made a start; if they do so, I will take a hand in that little game.”
At the first glow anywhere in the sky, telling of the use of the torch, Avon would have driven his mustang thither like the whirlwind, and it is safe to believe that his Winchester would have done more effective service than ever before. But the bright eyes which continually scanned every portion of the murky heavens caught no glimmer of a single star.
The mustang gave a slight whinny and rose to a canter again, but was roughly checked by his new master.
“What the mischief is the matter with you?”
Just then, something took shape in the gloom ahead. Avon stopped his steed and leaned forward. Yes; it was unmistakable.
There it stood––a long, low cabin, whose familiar contour told the alarming fact that he had come back to his starting-point, and was among the Comanches in front of his own home!