The Indian gave a short, unpleasant laugh. “You think they’d get back in time?” he asked.
“They’d be back in time to get you!” Mike flared.
“Try it,” the Indian invited. His voice became hard and menacing. “We could pick you off and wait for the others to come running back. This place makes a perfect ambush.”
The realization that Hank and his father might also be killed sobered Mike considerably. He reached up and loosened the strap that held his bedroll and rifle. Keeping his eyes on the rifles that stared down at them, Sandy did the same.
“Now move back. And keep your hands up in the air.”
Sandy and Mike did as they were told. The two armed Indians vaulted lightly down from their perch, approached the blankets, and took the boys’ guns.
“All right,” the Indian on the rock ordered. “Pick up your packs and climb up here.”
“Where are we going?” Sandy demanded.
“You’ll find out soon enough” came the answer. “Just keep moving—and don’t try anything.”
For the better part of an hour, they moved silently ahead, climbing higher into the mountains, avoiding what trails there were, keeping close to the protective cover afforded by the thick stands of jack pine. At last they arrived at a small clearing, perched high on the top of a lonely, desolate peak. The clearing was admirably situated, with an unobstructed view on three sides and accessible only by a single trail that wound tortuously up through jagged piles of razor-sharp rock. Sandy noticed the remains of a fire surrounded by three blanket rolls. It was an uncomfortable but well-hidden campsite.