The sound was a pistol-shot!
Just the one report, and no more. Cayuse listened breathlessly, but only deep and ominous silence followed the faint but incisive note of the six-shooter.
The boy’s fears leaped to Nomad. He had met with treachery, of some sort, on the trail!
Setting the pinto to a rapid gait, the Piute rode like the wind along the gully, the pony, with his muffled hoofs, carrying him onward like a darting shadow.
All roads, that night, seemed to lead to the Three-ply Mine. At least it seemed so to Little Cayuse.
And, for the young Indian, the way seemed wrapped in profound and forbidding mystery.
As he made in the direction of the pistol-shot, he believed he had a clue to at least part of the puzzle.
Bernritter had told the Apache to round up more warriors and wait for Bascomb. This had been done; and Wolf-killer, galloping along the trail after Jacobs, had fallen into a snare laid by Bascomb and the Apaches.
This is what the boy thought, but he was soon to be undeceived. A snare had been laid, but not for Nomad.
A few minutes of swift riding brought Little Cayuse into a zone where a sixth sense told him of danger.