The hill along which the young scout had taken his hurried flight was covered with a dense mass of willows, and the squawman had stopped in them as soon as he heard the commotion at his tepee. A short distance in front of him, but not in plain sight, was another figure, who stood with his gun at a ready and his finger on the trigger. It was Carl, the Trailer, who was determined that two or three of his pursuers should not get off scot-free in case he was discovered. He saw the squawman when he came up, and, if Harding had only known it, his life hung by a thread. When the yells of the Indians had ceased, and all became quiet again, the squawman proceeded to carry out the resolution he had formed while making his way to the top of the hill.
“Carl!” said he, in a low and cautious whisper.
There was no answer returned. The figure of the scout was drawn a little higher, and the muzzle of his rifle covered the man’s breast.
“Carl!” repeated the squawman in louder and more anxious tones.
“Well, what do you want?” came the answer this time. “Throw your hands up. I can see very plainly, and if you make a loud noise you are booked for the other world.”
The hands of the squawman were at once raised above his head, and he tried in vain to make out the dim and shadowy form of the young scout among the bushes; but Carl was secure in his concealment.
“Have you got any cartridges about you?” was the next question.
“Nary one. Every one I had is in that weapon.”
“You see I took your rifle to help me along,” returned Carl. “How did you know where to find me so easily?”
“I knew you did not go toward the fort, and I knew, too, that you could not have gone far in these bushes,” replied the squawman. “I want to tell you that your way of escape is open to you.”