A minute passed. It seemed like ten, to Return Kingdom, and, forgetting prudence, he stepped from behind the cart's protection, full into the campfire's ruddy glow, making of himself an easy target. He bent over the wounded Indian and found the blood flowing from a wound in the young brave's neck. Quickly he tied his handkerchief about the injury, then bathed the fellow's forehead and temples with water from the bucket he had filled at supper time. The older Indian crept up to watch this operation, but did not come fully within the lighted circle. "Who fired that shot, my friend?" Ree asked, very earnestly. "White men steal," the Indian answered, and shook his head. It was evident then that the savage suspected some white person of having made this attack with intent to commit robbery. Ree hoped this was the truth of the matter but there was a terrible suspicion growing in his mind that his own friend and partner, through some awful mistake, had fired upon the Indian. He drew the wounded man to the rear of the cart and placed him on a blanket beyond the campfire's light. The other savage made no move to help him, but crouched in the darkness intently listening, watching. Of a sudden the Indian's rifle flew like a flash to his shoulder. At the same instant Ree heard John Jerome's familiar whistle, and springing forward, seized the red man's weapon in time to prevent the speeding of a leaden messenger of death to his friend's heart. He answered John's call as he did this, praying and hoping that it could not--must not, have been his friend who had fired the shot which would probably end the younger Indian's life. CHAPTER VI. On Lonely Mountain Roads. "What's happened, Ree?" The tone in which John asked the question, satisfied Kingdom that his friend knew nothing of the shooting. Better than this, however, it satisfied the Indian who knelt silently nearby, still listening, that the boy he had so nearly shot, knew nothing of the person who had fired from the darkness. Quietly, but in tones the Indian could hear, Ree related what he knew of the mysterious occurrence. "Who could it have been, Chief!" John asked, turning to the Redskin and addressing him with the easy familiarity he used toward every one. The Indian shook his head. "Paleface," he grunted at last; "no tried to kill Indian; tried to kill white brother there. Black Eagle thinks long and knows how bullet flew. Man-that-shoots-from-the-dark wishes much to steal." Black Eagle's theory was far from satisfying Ree, but the Indian's manner persuaded the boy that the redskin at least knew nothing of the attack himself. Yet both boys knew the necessity of keeping a sharp eye turned in all directions. They could not tell positively as yet whether the Indians were friends or foes, nor at what moment an attack might be made by a hidden enemy.