“Then he’s still going on, is he?” asked Frank.
“Yes, and now I can see that each pony has a rider; why, Frank, we’re bearing down on them so fast that I can tell Jose from little Becky. It’s her, all right, Frank. Don’t I see her hair flying out behind as she rides. Oh! the meanness of that skunk making that little child gallop across this red-hot desert, just to save himself from being caught by our boys.”
“Well, you could hardly blame him for that,” Frank went on to say, with a touch of humor in his voice, “because what a bunch of furious cow punchers wouldn’t do to him you could say in one breath. But tell me, how does it look now?”
“They’re getting mighty close to where the men are waiting, Frank. Whoever do you suppose they can be?”
“We’ve heard a lot about that Mexican cattle rustler, Carlos, since we’ve come to the ranch; perhaps, now, these may be some of his crowd. They’ve got no love for the Double X Ranch boys, you remember; and if they think Jose and the child belong there, it’s going to go hard with them. But you see we don’t know all about it yet. Take a closer look, Andy.”
“Yes, I’ve got the lot in focus,” muttered the other.
“Do you see any feathers about them—examine their heads, and tell me,” Frank went on to say.
“Feathers!” ejaculated Andy, in astonishment, “why what in the wide world would—say, Frank, do you have an idea that they may be Indians?” “Well, I heard your uncle say that once in a while they’ve seen a squad of the reds down this way, sort of escaped from their reservation, and trying to see how it feels to be wild again. How about those feathers, Andy?”
“Why, there does seem to be something queer about the heads of those chaps, I give you my word there is, Frank. Honest now, I believe you’ve struck it right, and that they are Indians, but Frank, would they hold Jose up, and perhaps take his scalp, just like in the old days?”
“If so be they’ve been indulging in too much firewater. I wouldn’t put even that past them,” the other boy answered, soberly.