“There’s no tellin’, boy; but don’t worry; the Lord has brought us over a pretty rough trail to-day. I reckon we kin trust him fer the rest o’ the way.”
“That white devil is at the bottom of their meanness; he ought to be given his just deserts, and I’m going to see that he gets them.” Fred’s tone had a new ring in it. His latent manliness had been aroused.
“You’re right, boy,” returned his old friend calmly; “but let’s say our prayers now and go to sleep. Give your nerves a rest before you grip that job.”
“All right,” said Fred, “but I’m going to grip it.”
Chapter XX
A TURN IN THE TRAIL
IT was Flying Arrow who had saved Fred and his old friend. The young chief, true to his friendship for the old mountaineer, stoutly objected to killing the captives, when the White Injun, fearing the outcome of his cruelty, suggested that “dead men tell no tales.” Since, according to Indian custom, a unanimous decision was necessary to put a prisoner to death, Nixon had to content himself with his brutal scare. And now, thinking that the escaped men would rouse the valley, he made plans hastily to play his last trick and flee to escape the righteous wrath of the ranchers.
A council was held that night. It was agreed that they should break camp next morning. Old Copperhead, with the squaws and papooses, was to make a forced march and camp in the pass to the south. With this start, they could get into the eastern valleys before the whites were alive to their mischief. Ankanamp and his bunch of young bucks were to make the final raid on the ranches, lifting all the horses they could find. They would make as clean a sweep as possible, both for profit and for the purpose of crippling the pursuit. The raid was to begin at Morgan’s ranch, thence north to the Bar B and other places through the valley. Their rendezvous was to be in the pass at the southern end of the valley. Through this they would drive with all speed till out of reach of the whites.
The plot looked promising. It began to work smoothly. Without a mishap and before the sun was up, the whole band had filed out of the narrow gorge and trailed to the mouth of the canyon. Here it divided, the old chief with his weaker chargers skirting along the foothills to the south, Ankanamp with his marauders turning northward into the aspen groves on the mountain side, to hide and rest till dark should come to cover their movements. It chanced that they chose as their temporary resting place a thick covert of trees not more than half a mile south of Uncle Dave’s cabin. Picketing their horses out of sight within the groves, they rolled up in their blankets and threw themselves down to catch up the sleep they had lost the night before.
There they lay, dead to the world, when Fred, out hunting for Old Middie, Uncle Dave’s cow, which had strayed away the night before, came suddenly upon the sleeping Redskins. He stared a moment in surprise and fear, then seeing that he had not disturbed the band, he turned cautiously and stole back out of the dangerous den. When he felt safe, he broke into a run up the slope, arriving at the cabin with little breath to tell his tale.
When he did manage to get it out, the old mountaineer shook his head gravely. “Them red varmints mean mischief.”