"Call him, Carl," urged Herb.
The Indian gave a series of calls, but there was no response. The wind and rain had entirely annihilated any trace of the fire they had made for the pony's protection.
"Maybe he doesn't answer to a call," said Carl. "Or maybe I didn't have the right one. Just for fun I'll try an old one."
More in jest than in earnest he emitted a peculiar weird sound, based on several tones of the scale.
No answering whinny came. "I didn't think he'd know that anyway," said the boy. "I never heard it but once. An old chief taught it to me and said it used to be my father's call."
"Let's scour around a little," suggested Gray.
"All right. You stay here, and I'll see what I can find," replied Carl turning to the left. But he stopped short. In front of him stood a tall, stately, blanketed Indian. His whole face was hideously painted in various colors running in stripes backward from the nose, across his forehead and chin. His arms were folded, and his countenance was set and expressionless. A flashing pair of beadlike eyes, almost snaky, were fastened on Carl.
