“I guess he does. You take us. Understand? Then to the town, will you?”
The Indian held up two fingers now.
“He means two dollars,” declared Bob. “All right my friend, twenty dollars, if you say so. That’s the ticket, Ben. We’ll locate the Dart first, so as to be sure we can find it later, and then have our guide take us to the settlement. Zip! but we’re getting action at last.”
The Indian seemed to understand what they wished him to do. He ate his fish, using nearly all the salt left, acted unusually satisfied and brisk, and, breakfast despatched, the boys followed him single file as he led the way from the spot.
They had gone about four miles when their guide struck a narrow trodden path near the river. Its banks were densely fringed with heavy underbrush for over a mile. Then there was a break, an open place of perhaps three hundred feet. Just before reaching it, the Indian paused. He looked deeply serious, almost alarmed, Ben fancied, as he placed his finger warningly to his lips with the ominous words:
“Follow—quick—run fast.”
“What’s the reason, Powhattan?” asked Bob.
“Shoot. Prisoner. Bad white men.”
“Oh, an enemy around, you mean?”
“Yes—yes. Come.”