The firing, shouts, and yells came from a remote point in the bush, and were rapidly receding.
Avon came down from his saddle, kissed his aunt, shook hands with his uncle, and spoke kindly to Dinah, who was proud of the handsome fellow.
“Uncle,” said he briskly, “what do you suppose, has become of your horse Jack and Thunderbolt?”
“Taken off by the Comanches, or killed.”
“I suppose that is probable, but I shall make a search for them.”
Believing this could be done better on foot, he left the pony in charge of his relative and walked hastily into the bush.
“I don’t suppose there is much hope, but I have an idea that maybe Thunderbolt has been wounded and needs looking after. The bullets have been flying pretty thickly during 183 the last few minutes, and for that matter,” he added, pausing a few seconds to listen, “they are not through yet.”
On the edge of the bush he encountered a horseman, whose voice, when hailed, showed that he was “Jersey.”
“What’s the trouble?” asked Avon, pausing to exchange words with his friend.
“Aint nothing more to do,” was the response; “the varmints are travelling faster than this horse can go, though he was one of their animals.”