The pony stamped again. There was no other sound.
“I’ve got tuh find out what’s doin’ there before I make another break,” muttered the scout. “And here goes!”
The thicket was a closely woven one. Did he try to pass through it with his guns and other accouterments he might make some disturbance. So he left everything but his pistols, knife, and the bow and arrows he had taken from the dead chief on the ground, and began to worm his way through the brush-clump.
Once he made some little noise by catching a part of his clothing on a brittle branch. Instantly he halted and made the squeaking grunt of the porcupine. His imitation of animals was perfect, and a porcupine might easily be on the still hunt in the thicket-patch.
The pony did not change its position. Jack knew. So, after a moment of waiting, the scout risked moving on. He came finally to the edge of the brush, and there the horse stood—not three yards away from him!
And from where he crouched the scout could see more than the bulk of the pony’s body against the sky-line. It was bestrode by an Indian in head-dress and blanket. It was doubtless one of the chiefs who had started to ride around the fort. Would he ride on and not suspect the presence of the white man in the bushes?
But perhaps, in his nervousness, Texas Jack had not imitated the porcupine true enough to satisfy the keen ear of the Indian. Or else the porcupine’s grunt was a private signal between this chief and his own men.
However, Texas Jack saw the redskin force his pony nearer the thicket, and he heard its rider twitter like a bird disturbed at night in its nest.
“Old man, you’ve got the best of me!” thought the scout. “I can’t answer that signal, for I don’t know what the answer is. It’s a bad thing for you!”
There was no time for hesitation. Again the scout had to take life or be killed himself. The scout was a good shot with the bow and arrows as he was with rifle or pistol. And he must use a silent weapon to get rid of this foe.