“To’rds the south, beyond the canyon.”
“The demon! He’ll murder her or worse. He must be stopped.” Fred turned his horse to dash away in the direction Uncle Dave had given.
“Hold on, boy, you’d better get help.”
“No, we mustn’t lose time; I’m going now.”
“Then I’ll go with you.” The old man climbed on to Buck as he spoke, and followed Fred’s wild lead. “Take it easy, boy,” he cautioned; “you’ll make better time.”
Fred checked his speed somewhat, but could not hold down his throbbing heart.
Bud Nixon, meanwhile, was pushing on as fast as he could with his helpless, worn-out captive to overtake the band of Indians then hurrying through the southeastern pass. It was not till about dusk that he caught up with them camped temporarily in a secluded side canyon.
The savages were in a flurry of excitement. News of the fight had already been brought by Flying Arrow and other stragglers. Squaws and papooses were running about crying and wailing despite the efforts of the bucks to hold down their noise. The appearance of Ankanamp with his white prisoner brought consternation to the camp.
Alta was quickly lifted from her horse and carried into a tepee standing somewhat apart from the rest of the lodges. Her arms were untied, but she was left there closely guarded, at Bud’s order, by two squaws, while he and the other leaders held a council in Old Copperhead’s wigwam.
The Indians were in an ugly temper over their defeat, and naturally they laid the blame for it upon the one who had led them. Ankanamp was received, therefore, for the first time with sullen silence. He had staked too much on this last throw and had lost, bringing danger and terror to the tribe. This was enough to make the hot-headed braves ready to kill the White Chief.