“What’s the mat——” began Frank. But he checked himself instantly.
Bart Witherbee’s hand was held up.
Every one of the group read that mute signal aright.
Silence!
The old plainsman waited till he got right up to the group before he spoke, and then it was in a hushed tense whisper.
“Injuns,” he said, “they’re up on the hillside.”
“How many?” whispered back Frank.
“I dunno exactly, after that there bullet I didn’t wait ter see, and say, boys, I had ter leave as nice a string of trout as you ever see up there fer them pesky redskins ter git at.”
“Never mind the fish, Bart,” urged Frank, “tell us, is there danger?”
“There’s allus danger when Injuns is aroun’, and think they kin git somethin’ that’s vallerble without gitting in trouble over it,” was the westerner’s reply.