“Look away off yonder, up on the low ridge!” said the guide, eagerly.
“Moving figures, and of men at that!” ejaculated Roger.
“Indians, I take it,” said Dick; “for I can see the feathers in their hair, and the sun seems to glisten from their painted bodies. They must be on the warpath, to have put the paint on, and the feathers, too.”
“But look, Dick, there is one of them who wears clothes like a white trapper or borderman!” declared the excited Roger. “Do you see what I mean, Dick?”
“Yes, it certainly looks that way,” answered the other boy, shading his eyes with his hand in order to see better. “It is a white man, too, for he is wearing some kind of fur cap, and his hunting shirt is fringed like our own. There, he turned his face this way then, and he is no Indian, I am as certain as that my name is Dick Armstrong!”
CHAPTER XIX
A SUDDEN PERIL
“Now they have gone!” said Roger, as the figures, outlined against the sky, vanished behind some outcropping rock.
“Yes, and they seemed to be starting down the side of the ridge toward us, as near as I could see,” Dick declared, nor did the guide dispute the assertion.