Again the preceding animal crossed a patch of moonlight, and still greater was his surprise, when he recognized by a kind of phosphorescent gleam, the form of Flick O’Flynn seated upon its back!
Then the truth flashed upon his mind. Flick, the brave and noble hunter, had escaped, followed his, Frank’s, captors, and with the silence of death had dragged the savage from his pony, dispatched him and mounted the animal himself.
“What does the man mean?” mused Frank; “what next will he do—Oh!”
The exclamation involuntarily escaped his lips, but it was drowned in the noise of the animals’ feet. In passing under some low, drooping boughs where the gloom was impenetrable to the human eye, Frank felt a heavy form drop from the limbs overhead behind him on the animal he was riding, and the captive felt that his bonds were being cut.
“For heaben’s sake don’t breafe! it’s dis black nigger.”
Frank recognized the voice as that of Ebony Jim, and he at once realized the situation of affairs.
“Dar, take dat,” whispered the darky, placing a knife in Frank’s hand, “and loosen your feet.”
Frank leaned over and cut the thongs. So far he was free. A moment later there were heard the hasty footfalls of hurrying feet.
The escape was not discovered for some moments, and then a hurried but vain search was commenced by the Indians. Frank was saved by as bold, silent and daring a stratagem as was ever conceived by the fearless borderman.
Fortunately, Frank’s rifle, accouterments and coat were restored to him, they having been in possession of the unfortunate chief, whom the two hunters dragged from his pony unseen. The rest of his things, including his share of the robbers’ gold, were lost.