Whatever Toma’s reply was Dick did not hear it, for with an impatient leap he flung open the door and disappeared. Toma remained behind, not sure that his young white friend’s move had been wise, yet believing he could do more to help if he stayed in the cabin.
When Dick left the cabin he made straight for the point from which he thought the rifle shot had come. It was growing lighter. In the east a faint gray fan of light showed over the forest—dawn. He ran on for a little way, then he came upon tracks. Pursuing these at a run, he came in sight of the man who had left the cabin an hour before. The meeting was a surprise for both.
Dick dodged behind a tree as the other fired from his hip. The ball whizzed harmlessly over Dick’s head, and he shot hastily. His shot also went wild, but the other took to his heels. Dick did not pursue him, but began calling for Sandy. Presently he was rewarded by a distant shout and in a few minutes the chums were reunited.
“Did he shoot at you?” Dick queried anxiously.
“No, I don’t know what he shot at. Maybe he thought it was me,” Sandy replied. “I’m half frozen. Gosh, it seemed hours out here.”
“Let’s hurry back to the cabin,” Dick hastened. “Toma is there, and we’ve captured the scar faced Indian.”
Sandy was too cold to care how many Indians had been captured, and he hobbled along after Dick like a stiff, old man.
“I hope Toma is all right,” Dick said anxiously as they neared the cabin.
On the threshold of the cabin they stood a moment later in stark amazement. Toma lay bleeding and silent on the floor, and the scar faced Indian was gone!
“Well, if that doesn’t beat anything!” Dick ejaculated, rushing to Toma.