A man in the interior of the big white wagon, and whose eyes Cayuse could see at an aperture in the canvas, said something in a low voice to the woman at the lines. She looked hard at Cayuse.
“What is your name, boy?” the woman asked.
“All same Little Cayuse,” he answered.
“What I thought,” said a gruff voice within.
The Indian who accompanied the outfit had ridden around the wagon and stopped near the Piute, when suddenly a double-barreled gun was poked out by the side of the woman and a man’s head and shoulders appeared, as he said:
“Hands up, Cayuse, and no monkey business. Take his arms and hitch his pony to yours, Slow Foot; then tie Cayuse’s feet together under his pony.”
Little Cayuse had not the slightest chance of escape against such treachery. The people he had mistaken for harmless travelers had proven banditti of a sort the Indian boy had never met. He could not imagine what these white people should want of him, especially if they were going to the fort, where he would be known and released on Wild Bill’s word.
The voice of the man inside had a familiar sound, but the Piute could not recall its owner. The voice of the woman was hoarse and strained, probably from shouting to the mules.
When Little Cayuse had been securely bound, the outfit moved ahead in the direction it had been pursuing—toward the mountains.
As they approached the mouth of a cañon a party of Indians rode out and, wheeling, galloped toward them. The Indian called Slow Foot rode on ahead, and after exchanging a few words with the leader of the party of a dozen warriors, they dashed away and the schooner entered the gorge.