“Strike again, you dirty devil!” Fred defied him, tugging at the thongs.
“Quiet, boy, quiet,” cautioned the old mountaineer.
“I’ll larn ye to be impudent with your betters,” snarled the bully, cutting the boy a third time.
They had reached the main trail; the White Injun ordered the captives lashed to some pine trees that stood near; then with his band he withdrew to a spot some rods away and held a council. The mountaineer studied their movements carefully, but he could not divine their purpose.
“What will they do with us?” asked Fred anxiously.
“I dunno, boy, but keep cool, whatever comes.”
“Will they murder us?” The boy’s face was tense and pale.
“Wall, we ain’t dead yet; it’ll take all of ’em to agree to that; that dirty white is stirrin’ up some mischief, but I can’t tell just what.”
They could not hear what was being said.
A whoop came from the savages; they leaped on their ponies and came dashing back.