Toma blinked a number of times, then suddenly started.
“Sure!” he broke forth excitedly. “I know him. Young Indian fellow Baptiste strike ’em hard with revolver that day over at mine.”
“I’m beginning to see light,” Sandy cut in quickly. “We owe our lives to you, Dick. Because you knocked Baptiste down that day, after he’d struck the chief’s son, he—— he——”
“Is showing his gratitude,” Dick completed the sentence.
Then the three boys looked up expectantly. With a slow, measured tread, the subject of their discourse advanced with great solemnity and, bending over each of the prisoners in turn, cut the moose-hide thongs that bound them.
“Hurrah!” shouted Sandy. Then facing about, turning his head slowly, he looked up at Dick. “I was never happier—never quite so happy as I am right now,” he declared fervently.
CHAPTER XXIII
GUESTS OF THE CHIEF
There was much to think about, much to tell during the next few hours. Over and over again, Sandy related the story of his capture, lingering over certain details which lent themselves to dramatic exploitation.
“I was certain that you were dead,” he told Dick for the hundredth time. “I saw them carry your body away and I could have sworn that there wasn’t a breath of life in it. If ever there was a corpse that looked——”
“Forget about it,” Dick hastily interrupted. “I’m pretty much alive now—and that’s all that matters. When you come to think of it, we’ve been more than fortunate. How we’ve managed to get out of this scrape without suffering seriously is a mystery to me. We’ve lost a little weight, a little sleep, a little skin and cuticle here and there, but——”