'Best leave him have his own way,' said Wharton, 'he knows more than we do, and he'll give his own hair to save Frank's.' The two boys could not deny the justice of what old Wharton said, but the waiting for news was weary work for all that, and even Wharton was making preparations to start on a search for his two comrades, when they came back to camp, Frank pale and bleeding, leaning heavily on Warwolf, whose hunting-shirt was soaked with the boy's blood. 'Stand back, and don't worry him with questions,' commanded old Dick; 'and you, young 'un, if you want to help your brother, pile them rugs up for us to bed him down on. What is it, Warwolf?' he added as he lowered the boy, half fainting from loss of blood, on to the skins. 'The white hunter shot a buck near a camp of Crows. An Indian would have seen their camp-fire before he saw the buck, but the white man had only eyes for the buck. The Crows heard the shot, and their braves stole round the hunter. Had he not been fleeter than the pronghorn on the prairie, they would have scalped him before dusk. As it is, he has only got a bullet through his arm. To-morrow he will be rested and well;' and, so saying, the chief went on preparing some herbs and simple remedies which he had drawn from a sack of beaver-skin which he carried about him. 'Are there many of the Crows in camp?' asked Dick. 'A large party on the war-path,' replied Warwolf, bandaging up Frank's arm in a kind of herb-poultice. 'What does my brother advise?' asked Dick. 'If the young hunter was strong enough to travel,' replied the Indian, 'we might escape to-night and perhaps reach my tribe before the accursed Crows overtook us. As it is, we must wait and fight here. We shall kill many of them.' 'But,' said Snap, 'we cannot possibly beat off so large a party. It will cost every one of us our lives.' 'It will,' replied the Indian grimly; 'but it will cost the Crows more.' 'Oh, hang the Crows,' cried Dick, 'I don't think much of your plan, chief, though I confess I can think of nothing better.' 'I can though, Dick,' said Snap. 'Out with it then, my boy.' 'Well, didn't Warwolf say that it was only six or seven miles from here to the Lone Mountain?' 'That's so,' replied Wharton. 'And,' continued Snap, 'since this terrible bird has settled there, no Indian will put foot on the mountain.' 'You've got it, Snap,' cried Dick enthusiastically, 'that's our chance, we can carry Frank that far.' Warwolf's face had been a study while the boy spoke, and now he broke in with vehement endeavours to dissuade the whites from their rash undertaking. 'No! no! Warwolf,' replied Wharton, 'you may believe in your great bird if you like, but I guess the only birds as trouble me just now are them tarnation Crows.'