But how had it fared with Frank and Walter?
They saw the negro’s hand thrust down, saw Flick lifted from the ground, heard his frightful scream, and, without a second look or thought, took to their heels and fled with all possible speed over the hill.
But, unfortunately, they ran right from safety into danger.
They had not gone more than a mile when they discovered a party of mounted Cheyenne charging directly toward them.
Instantly Frank’s rifle was to his face, and he shot, in quick succession, two of the leading savages. He was quickly surrounded by the whole party, which gave Walter an opportunity to escape, which he did.
Frank was tied upon one of the ponies, and immediately the Indians, a score in all, mounted their animals and set off toward the north, moving in regular Indian file, one after the other, Frank being next to the foremost one, who led his—the captive’s—pony. They seemed in no hurry, moving along quite leisurely. However, they failed to discover two figures that were stealing after them like shadows.
Slowly the day wore away. Night came on. Frank strained his eyes in hopes of catching a glimpse of some friendly form moving through the gloom. Suddenly he heard a slight noise before him. He fixed his eyes on the gloom in advance. Just then the animal of the preceding and foremost captor flitted across a patch of moonlight struggling feebly down through the opening in the tree-tops.
The captive started with wonder and surprise.
The animal was riderless!
Not one of the savages behind had discovered the sudden, silent and mysterious disappearance of their leader.