Old Nick Nomad, the trapper and famous border scout, twisted around in his saddle, jerking at his horse’s bridle, and stared back along the way he had come after leaving the outlaw stronghold.
Nomad was a small, dried-up specimen of a man, dressed in border costume of ancient fashion, even to the beaver-skin cap. He held in his right hand a long rifle. His old horse, ungainly as himself, yet possessed of as many surprising qualities, stepped about, in spite of the jerking rein, and showed every indication of nervousness and fright.
“You’re skittisher’n a two-year-old, and ain’t got any more sense, when you smells Injuns,” Nick grumbled. “Stand still, now; they’re comin’ erlong, I know, but they ain’t nigh enough ter bite ye!”
Old Nebuchadnezzar had made a rapid run since the Blackfeet were sighted, more than two miles back. The homely, shaggy-haired beast had been too fleet for the Blackfeet ponies. His sides were heaving now, and sweat trickled down his legs, dripping to the ground. Yet he was ready to go on; and so much did he fear Indians that he would have run until he fell, if Nomad had but given him rein and urged him a little.
Nomad was trying to determine whether the Blackfeet were coming on, following his trail, or whether they had left the trail and were trying to cut him off at some narrow pass. They were more familiar with this part of the country than he was, and he knew in that they possessed a decided advantage.
After a time of quiet, the Blackfeet had once more become troublesome, under Crazy Snake, whose hatred of the whites had flared forth with sudden fury.
Nomad had, for two days, returned to the old life he loved best of all—trapping by the headwaters of the mountain streams, leading a carefree existence in the open and under the blue sky.
Then, on the last day—the day on which he was to arrive at the fort—trouble and peril had descended on him when he had least expected it.
His traps were stolen or destroyed, his little hut was broken open and robbed, and then Paul Davis, his old-time border partner, who had encountered him in the neighborhood of the outlaws’ stronghold, was slain, while returning one afternoon to the hut from a hunt.
Nomad found Davis’ body in the trail that led down from the higher mountains, and on Davis’ breast a bloody arrow, slashed there with a scalping knife.