“I hold to the former view,” Dick answered a little grimly. “I don’t think there’s the least doubt on that score. The arrow missed my head by less than a foot, and nearly caught Lee in his right leg.”
“A good shot all right,” Sandy mumbled, half to himself. “Whoever fired it, was a marksman. He knew his business. It was an Indian, of course.”
“Yes, it must have been.”
Sandy raised his voice so that the guide, who was leading the pack-ponies, could hear.
“Toma, how does it happen that some of the Indians around here still use a bow and arrow. I thought that all of them went to the trading posts now to buy rifles. How do you account for it?”
“Not all buy rifles,” Toma enlightened him. “Once in a while far away from trading post like this, you find wild people, mebbe not more than once or twice see white men. These Indians very much afraid white man’s guns. No come very close to settlements or trade at post. These people not many—only few tribes left.”
“Yes,” said Dick, “I remember hearing something like that before. Possibly, it was from Corporal Richardson.”
“Well, I know this much,” Sandy broke in, “I’d much rather have them to contend with than the outlaws under Henderson.”
“Mebbe have both very soon,” predicted Toma.
“Great Guns! I hope not!” Sandy’s alarm was genuine. “I’ve had enough of Henderson to last me all the rest of my days. I’m really beginning to believe, though, that we’ve seen the last of him. At any rate, I don’t think he’s going to bother us any more about the mine.”