Archie, intent upon securing his fish before it floundered back into the water, did not reply; and when he looked up again, his cousin was out of sight.
Frank urged Roderick into a gallop, and soon had left the valley behind, and was threading his way through a thickly-wooded ravine that led into the mountains. Here he became more cautious in his movements, and allowed his horse to walk leisurely along, while he peered through the trees on every side of him, in the hope of meeting with one of the numerous elk which every evening descended from the mountains into the valley to crop the grass and slake their thirst at the brook. His chances for a shot at one of these animals would have been greatly increased if he had left his horse behind; but grizzlies were plenty, and Frank did not like the idea of encountering one while on foot. On this particular evening, however, the mountains seemed to be deserted. Not a living animal of any description did he see, during the hour and a half that he continued on his course up the ravine; and becoming discouraged at last, he turned Roderick about and rode toward the rancho.
"I wish I could see just one squirrel," said Frank, who, like all young hunters, considered it his duty to empty his gun at something before he returned home. "What's that?"
A slight movement in the bushes in advance of him attracted his attention; then a twig snapped behind him, and a yell, so sudden and appalling that it made Frank's blood run cold, echoed through the ravine; and before he could look about him to see what was the matter, he was pulled from his saddle and thrown to the ground. In a twinkling his rifle was torn from his grasp, his hands bound behind his back, and he was helped to his feet to find himself surrounded by a party of Indians in war costume.
CHAPTER III.
FRANK LEARNS SOMETHING.
Frank was as frightened as a boy could be. Amazed at the suddenness of the assault, he gazed in stupid wonder at the savages, winked his eyes hard to make sure that he was not dreaming, and looked again. But there was no dreaming about it—it was all a reality; and as he stood there powerless among his captors, and looked at their glittering weapons, and painted, scowling faces, all the stories he had heard the trappers relate of their experience among the Indians, came fresh to his memory. He recognized one of the savages, and that was the chief. His blanket and buckskin hunting shirt were gone, he wore the tomahawk and scalping knife in his belt, his face was covered with paint, and altogether he looked fierce enough to frighten any boy who had never seen Indians in war costume before.
Frank took these things in at a glance; and while he was wondering what object the Indians could have in view in capturing him, and what they intended to do with him, he was trying hard to summon all his courage to his aid, and to appear as unconcerned as possible. If there had been any hostile Indians in that part of the country, he could have understood the matter; but he had been told that they were all friendly.
"Look here, chief," said he, "I'd like to know what this means. You have made a mistake."