He saw the mustang disappear behind the motte, at full speed, and hoped that his pursuers had not yet gained a position from whence they could note the absence of its rider. If they had not, then he felt that he was safe.
Then the enemy spurred swiftly by, following keenly upon the plain trail, without a pause or single glance around the point. Then they, too, passed behind the timber island.
Chuckling heartily, Tom arose and entering the water, ran lightly along its edge, until he came to a small log, lying upon the shore. Rolling this into the water, the guide secured his rifle upon it, and then entering the swift current, swam rapidly down-stream, pushing the float before him, thus keeping his gun and powder dry.
As he came in view of the wagon-train, he uttered a loud, clear shout, and leaving the water, ran lightly toward the camp, which was all confusion.
“What is it, Tom? Where’s your horse?” excitedly asked the major, as he met the old scout.
“Boun’ for Salt Lake, takin’ a wheen o’ pesky red-skins to visit ol’ Brigham!”
“What do you mean?”
“Jest what I say. But we hain’t got no time to talk now—thar’s work to be did. Dusky Dick an’ a wheen o’ red imps is on the rampage, red-hot fer ha’r, an’ ’ll pay us a visit afore sun-up to-morry.”
“How do you know?” anxiously queried Calhoun.
“’Ca’se I see’d ’em. Don’t jabber—work!” impatiently added Tom, as he entered the little corral.