Fred grasped the rough hand and pressed it, then leaped on the horse.
“Sh!” warned Uncle Dave, “they’re stirrin’. You’ll hev to move mighty cautious, but move.”
At the word Fred started again, this time to wind his way carefully through the grove. He kept well within the shadow of the trees till the willowy way of the creek offered another stretch of hidden trail, which he threaded cautiously for half a mile or more, then he struck across the open flat, urging Old Buck to his utmost.
Fear was swept aside. His only desire was to reach the ranch in time to upset the White Injun’s plot. The glad thought that he was doing signal service for the settlers and for Alta—service that might lift the cloud from his name—never crossed him. Old Buck, seeming to catch the feelings of his rider, rushed on; but his flying feet were too slow for Fred’s eager thoughts. The dark forms of the big stacks and sheds seemed miles away, but they neared at last, and finally he dashed up to them, leaped from his horse and ran to the door. His excitement was expressed in the hurried rap he gave.
The old Colonel, half roused by the galloping hoofs, was brought to a sitting posture by the sharp knock.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
“Fred Benton.”
Alta, wakened too, heard the name with a strange joy.
“What’s up?”
“Indians are raiding the valley.”