“And you promise we shall not be slain?” asked Frank.
He realized that such a promise would not be worth much, perhaps, yet that it would be suicidal to attempt to fight. As the stranger had said, though they might kill some of the enemy, yet inevitably they must themselves be slain. They were hemmed in, and without shelter, and the men ringing them ’round were determined-looking fellows of military bearing.
“I have said,” answered the leader.
“Then we surrender,” said Frank. “But I warn you that we are citizens of the United States and that our government will demand an accounting for us.”
The leader regarded them with a slight trace of bewilderment. Then his face cleared, and he said:
“I do not understand your words. But suffice it you are in the Forbidden Land. Now lay down your sticks of fire.”
The boys complied. As they bent over, their heads close together, Frank whispered in a low voice:
“We’re up against it, Bob. He never heard of the United States.”
At a sign from the leader, two men advanced to the sides of each of the boys, deprived them of their revolvers, and then, disdaining to tie their hands, led them to one side. There Bob and Frank stood, a soldier on each side of him, clad in tunic and soft leather boots, and looked on while the others of the company packed up the camp baggage, struck the tents, led up the mules from their pasturage nearby, and loaded them. Camp was struck in an incredibly short time, and they started downstream and out of the valley.
The leader of the party had a proud, hawklike face, and as he strode ahead, Frank’s eyes kept returning fascinatedly to that profile.