“We haven’t got any string to make a bow,” Frank objected.
“Yes we have,” replied Kenyon, holding up his runaway bundle of clothes, around which was wound a liberal supply of fishline.
Realizing that their situation was desperate, the boys set to work with a will. Fes and Byron made a bow, while Hal and the other two boys began a search for arrow wood. They found a patch of shrubbery that contained an abundance of long straight stems, and they cut a score or more of these and made them into arrows. By this time the bow-makers had produced a good mountain-ash bow with a strong string of several fish-cord strands, and Hal and his helpers had three whistle-arrows ready to shriek a novel message through the air.
Hal now tore several leaves from a notebook, inscribed messages of distress on them and wrapped one around each of the arrows and tied it fast. Then he took his stand on the ledge overlooking the road in the cañon, while the other boys, seated on the ground, made more whistle-arrows.
Presently Kenyon fitted an arrow to the bow, and the shaft-makers sprang to their feet to watch the effect of his first shot. The whistle-tipped stem flew with a sharp, piercing sound that thrilled all with hope. Eagerly they followed its flight, while the shriek died away and the arrow sped far out and down, just beyond the road and the traveler at whom the shaft was aimed.
“I’ll attract his attention pretty soon if I can keep on makin’ as good shots as that,” declared Hal as he let fly another arrow.
It was impossible to determine whether or not the attention of the driver in the buggy had been attracted by the first two whistling-arrows, but the third certainly had a startling effect. The boys high overhead saw the horse suddenly spring forward and race along the road at a break-neck speed. Around a curve he went, the carriage tipping over and spilling its occupant out. The horse tore loose from the harness fastenings and sped madly along the road, past a team coming from the opposite direction, and out through the northern pass.
“Is he killed?” gasped Byron.
“No,” replied Hal, leaning forward eagerly. “See, he’s got up and is running after his horse. I hope he finds the arrow and reads the note.”
“You hit the horse, didn’t you?” Frank inquired.