“No imagination about the voice, Buffalo Bill,” reassured the girl. “It was real enough, and it certainly belonged to Nomad.”
“Buffler!” cried the voice again. “Injuns—’Paches! Take ter ther road, an’ hustle.”
Still in the dark as to where Nomad was, the mention of Apaches brought the peril of the situation clearly before the scout’s mind.
“Come, Dell!” said the scout; “we can’t ignore that warning. Nomad is somewhere, and he is doing his best for us. We’ll go down the trail.”
Together the two arose from the rock. The next moment they made the discovery that they were unsteady on their feet—and this at a time when they needed all their steadiness and strength.
Reeling back and forth, they started down the trail.
“Where are you, Nick?” shouted the scout.
“Go on, Buffler, go on!” roared the voice of the trapper. “I’ll be on hand when ye need me. But keep ter ther trail! Keep ter ther middle o’ ther trail! Steady, thar, steady! Look out fer Dell—look out——”
Dell was on the side nearest the brink of the precipice. As the words of Nomad, seemingly coming from infinite space, throbbed in the scout’s ears, he felt a sudden, terrific pull at his right hand.