In the flashing sight he had of all this, it looked to Dave as though the hunter was going to shoot the man with the lady, unless the Indian hurled his tomahawk in time to prevent him.
Straight up against the Indian Dave rolled. Quickly the latter put out his foot. He brought it squarely down on Dave’s chest and held him motionless.
“Lie still,” he spoke rapidly, “or you’ll spoil the picture!”
CHAPTER IX
MAKING HIS WAY
Dave felt as if he was in some unreal, topsy-turvy dream. Everything was like a Wild West picture, and he closed his eyes wondering if his fall and roll down the side of the ravine had not sent his wits astray.
The fling of the tomahawk he saw was real, so was the sharp report of the gun. Above all, the heavy foot pressing down on his body and holding him motionless was tangible.
Dave opened his eyes as the foot was suddenly removed, to view an amazing spectacle. The “Indian” had taken out a pipe and was leisurely filling it. The “hunter” had picked up the “tomahawk”, which had struck a piece of rock and split open, showing that it was made of papier mache. Across the ravine the young man had risen to his feet and was yawning and stretching, and the young lady walked away putting up her parasol.
“Mind yourself, now,” spoke the owner of the foot that held Dave a prisoner, and he reached down, grasped the boy by the arm and set him on his feet.