At this moment Ebony returned from pursuit of the flying savages, and, as the ranger’s eyes fell upon him, he turned his animal so that the fire would not shine in his face.
In the mean time, Flick O’Flynn and Frank Armond were busily engaged in restoring young Lyman to his senses, of which a blow on the head had bereft him; while the young surgeon, Ralph Rodman, turned his attention to Willis’ bleeding arm.
“Do you know what tribe the Indians belong to that captured your girl?” asked Rainbolt, after a moment’s silence.
“They were Cheyennes,” replied the colonel.
“Black Bear’s cut-throats, I suppose,” returned the handsome ranger.
“Golly mighty!” suddenly exclaimed Ebony, peering up into the ranger’s face as he spoke; “dat sounds jist like Massa Walraven’s voice, as I’s a born nigger, but den it’s not his face, for Massa Walraven died long ago—died at de Debbil’s Tarn,” and he turned away.
The ranger flashed a quick glance upon Sanford, who was moving uneasily; then in a tone of indifference said:
“I am afraid you will not succeed in rescuing your daughter if Black Bear has reached or does reach his haunts.”
“God forbid that he should!” exclaimed Sanford.
“But,” continued the horseman, “since I am not particularly engaged at present, I can and will devote my time to assisting you in rescuing your girl. I wish, however, to act strictly alone, for the assistance I have will enable me to do so with success—but, I had entirely forgot my companion,” and taking the silver horn from his saddle, he placed it to his lips and blew a shrill blast.