“Quiet, Tobe,” said the mountaineer, as the savages plunged through the brush around them. An ugly look of triumph lighted Nixon’s face when he recognized Fred.
“Oh, ho! the cow-kid!” he gloated. “Playin’ the sneak on us, huh!”—the tone turned hateful. “I’ll teach you a trick or two. Here,” he ordered, “tie ’em up.”
Half a dozen Indians leaped from their ponies to obey. In their scramble one of them brushed too close to old Buck, and the old horse kicked savagely, sending the Redskin head over heels into a bunch of willows. The band roared with laughter at their companion’s upset; while the old horse snorted and plunged through the band down the canyon, with two bucks on their ponies after him. As they neared the runaway, Buck kicked again, landing squarely on the head pony’s shoulder. They tried in vain to head him back, but he dodged and finally escaped; and they came whooping back to their comrades.
“You cowardly cur!” Fred broke out, as Nixon with the others grabbed him and began to tie his arms with buckskin thongs, “I’ll—”
“Keep cool, boy, cool,” came the quiet voice of the old mountaineer. Fred held his tongue, but his heart thumped with distress and anger.
“Now git across that creek,” ordered the White Injun. “Hustle up!” he fetched Fred a stinging blow with his quirt.
The boy, furious with the insult, could hardly hold his temper; but he obeyed, plunging through the icy stream behind Uncle Dave, with Bud on his pony, crowding and splashing them.
“Nothin’ like cold water for keepin’ cool,” jeered Nixon.
“You know it, damn you!” retorted Fred, unable to restrain himself.
“Shut up!” snapped his tormentor, giving him another biting crack with his quirt.