"Hullo, pony, who are you?"
The Comanche at once responded,—
"Where are you? Hey?"
"Horse in hole!" exclaimed the warrior. "Where Texan? Where Lipan?"
He listened a moment, and again the animals spoke to each other.
"Ugh!" said the Comanche. "Texan go away and leave pony. Go take him. Heap brave!"
It was a piece of reckless daring, indeed, to go down alone into that blind hollow. There might be something much more dangerous than a pony lurking there. Again assuring himself, however, that he was a great brave and afraid of nothing, he sprang to the ground. He tethered his own pony, laid aside his bow and lance and club and drew his knife. He adjusted his shield upon his left arm, and then he was ready.
His worst peril was not in the hole. While he was making his rapid preparations Red Wolf made his own. His arrow was in its place now, and he was almost lying flat at the corner of the boulder.
There was not light enough for long-range archery, but now the Comanche brave stepped stealthily forward, knife in hand, his shield up, and his short, hard breathing testifying his intense excitement. He slipped along past the rock.
"Twang" went the Lipan boy's bowstring, and he sprang to his feet, drawing his own knife as he did so,—the splendid present of Bowie, the white hero.