“Keep yer head, boy,” cautioned Uncle Dave, his voice still steady, but in his heart were serious misgivings as to the outcome.
The band circled round their captives, yelling and whooping, and occasionally taking a shot. Two of the bucks flung their knives into the trees just above the prisoners’ heads; then Nixon capped the brutal scare by emptying his revolver at the knives. This done, the band gave a furious yell and burst away up the canyon.
Fred, dazed with fright, could hardly rouse himself to the reality that they were gone, when Uncle Dave called gently,
“Hev they hurt ye, boy?”
“I guess not,” the voice trembled, “but they’ve left us here to die.”
“Wall, we ain’t dead yet,” came the reassuring tone; “try to git loose.”
They both began to struggle to free themselves from the thongs.
It seemed impossible. They worked and tugged till they were exhausted and sore. As they hung there resting, to try again, they suddenly heard the hoof beats of a horse. A moment more and it appeared with Flying Arrow on its back. The Indian rode swiftly up behind the trees to which the captives were bound, jerked out his hunting knife from its scabbard, and with a few swift strokes, cut the thongs that held them. This done, he sped back up the canyon without a word.
As the Indian band was entering the gorge, the young chief had leaped from his horse, and, pretending to fix his saddle, had let his companions file past him. The moment they were out of sight, he had dashed back to free the prisoners. The band was just riding into camp when he caught up with them.
“What you been doin’?” demanded the White Injun, as Flying Arrow rode up on his panting pony.