“You be good fellow. Hurry now!” the inexorable voice boomed at him through the heavy barrier. “I be along mebbe eight, ten minutes.”
There was nothing left for him to do except obey. Shaking his head, wondering what new form of insanity had seized hold of his friend, he wheeled about and struck back towards the billet. There he gathered up a bundle of food, secured the rifles, cartridges and revolver—exactly as he had been instructed—and sat down to wait.
In a remarkably short time Toma appeared. His coming was heralded by the clatter of hooves. Dick heard a voice calling to him.
Toma did not even dismount, as Dick thrust his head through the doorway.
“Is that my horse?” asked Dick, feeling a little foolish.
“Your horse. Bring ’em rifles an’ grub an’ jump up into saddle quick.”
Sandy was just coming down the street, his arms loaded with provisions, when the two horses, their flanks quivering, nostrils dilated, leaped from the trodden snow around the doorway and galloped away like mad.
They turned off on the north trail, whirling past an open-mouthed sentry, who, in his hurry to get out of the way, stepped back in a huge snowdrift and sat down. They streaked over a narrow bridge, spanning a creek, shot up the steep embankment on the farther side and, at break-neck speed, headed for the open country in the direction of the Indian village. It was not until they were two miles out, that Toma drew in his horse.
“We stop here for a few minutes,” he informed Dick.
“What for?”