George Long fainted in the water; but four Indians rubbed him back into life, and he was jerked upon his feet.
“Where’s white trapper?”
George pointed to the river, and the Indians who had fired the volley which resulted so fatally to the voyagers, declared that Frontier Shack had disappeared in one of the quicksand whirlpools which abound in the Platte.
“I guess you’re able to sit on a horse,” said Tom Kyle, turning to our hero. “We’re going home now.”
The boy declared that he felt stronger, and presently the party were riding in a full gallop toward the north. While they were mounting, a bright light illumined the cove, and several Pawnees, loaded with pelts, rode up and joined the band. The island home of Otis Shackelford was in flames, and it looked as if the entire island would be devoured by the scarlet demon, fire.
“Where is the trapper’s horse?” questioned Tom Kyle, of the youth, as they rode along.
George replied by relating the story of Charley Shafer’s sudden departure.
“I wanted that horse,” replied the renegade, “and you must know that I am terribly disappointed. There is no such steed as the trapper’s in my nation; I would have given a thousand dollars for him, any day.”
Tom Kyle never dreamed that that coveted horse was to prove his death!
They rode into the Indian village an hour after midnight. Confusion filled the square, which was illuminated by torches elevated on poles, and a strange sight greeted George Long’s eyes as he took in the wild scene.