"Hello, hello! Pretty weak, ain't you, for a boy who wanted to fight grizzlies with his bare hands?"
Rob looked up. The big form of Jeffries Mayberry stood framed in the doorway.
He came forward and, gently as a woman, placed Rob on the couch.
"Why—why, it's Mr. Mayberry!" gasped Rob, as his eyes fell on his companion's kindly, bearded features.
"Yes, it's me, right enough," laughed the Indian agent. "And now, if you'll lie quiet for a minute, I'll see how some rabbit stew is getting along. How does that sound?"
"Fine!" smiled Rob, and, indeed, the mention of food had set all his appetite on edge again. "But see here, Mr. Mayberry, I don't want to be babied this way. I'm going to get up and——"
"You are going to do nothing of the sort," exclaimed the Indian agent. "Here, Ranger." Again he gave the peculiar whistle, and Ranger's dainty head appeared inquiringly in the doorway.
"Watch that boy, Ranger, and if he tries to get up—grab him!"
With these words, the kind-hearted Indian agent vanished, to superintend the composition of the stew he was making over a camp fire outside.
"Well," thought Rob, "this is a funny situation. I'm in a hut, and haven't the least idea how I got here. A horse is set to guard me, and——I wonder," he went on, "if that horse is really a watch dog, or if that was just a bluff."