In the Indian encampment, there was a very noticeable flurry and bustle of excitement as a small party, headed by an exceedingly atrocious individual, made its way into camp. With the exception of the leader, Toma had never seen any of them before. Also, with the exception of the leader, every man was weighted down with a load of what—even at that distance—Toma recognized immediately as being the supplies he, Dick and Sandy had discarded at the beginning of their hasty retreat.
Even the pony, which brought up the procession, was the self same pack-horse he had ridden into the river that morning. Their supplies and their horse were gone, but it was not this loss alone which had been the direct cause of Toma’s anger.
The young guide flashed one more look of resentment in the direction of the encampment, then turned quickly and made his way back to Dick and Sandy, who were crouched within a natural rock barricade, about one hundred yards distant.
“What did you find out?” Sandy demanded as Toma rejoined them.
“Indians get our supply an’ pony,” came the prompt answer.
“Well, that was to be expected,” said Dick. “It can’t be helped now. Did you find out anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“Toma see scar-face Indian.”
“What!” exclaimed Dick and Sandy in one voice.