“But those Comanches——”
“Sh!” interrupted the trapper, “I hear something walking.”
They listened, and the faintest sounds of footfalls could be heard, quite hesitatingly, as if some one were very cautiously approaching them.
“Down!” whispered Ward, sinking silently to the earth, “whoever it is is coming this way.”
The others were not slow in imitating his example, and lying thus upon the ground intently listening, they now and then caught a dull sound, as if made by an Indian carrying a heavy body, with which he retreated, as often as he advanced. A person who had had no experience of prairie life would have failed to hear the sound at all; but all three of our friends heard it distinctly.
Ward Lancaster had detected the direction of the sound, and was peering out on the prairie in the hope of discerning the cause of it. All at once he gave utterance to a suppressed exclamation, and then added, as he turned his head.
“What do you s’pose it is?”
“I am sure I cannot tell,” replied Wainwright.
“It’s a horse, and if I’m not powerful mistaken it’s your own animal; but hold on; don’t rise; it may be a trick of the Comanches to find out where you are.”
The horse steadily advanced until a few feet of the prostrate men, when it pawed and snuffed the air Ward then quietly arose, and before the animal could wheel about, he seized the bridle and held it a prisoner. Wainwright then came up and found that it was his own mustang, with all his accoutrements complete.