"No, I don't believe it's quite as bad as that," replied his cousin, trying to assume a confidence he was far from feeling. "They're just having a palaver about whether to head straight back home, or continue the hunt. That is, I guess as much from the way they point toward the northwest, and then at us." "But what will happen when we get there, Dick? Can't you think up something to get us out of this scrape?" asked Roger, turning as usual to his stronger cousin, when trouble descended upon them. "I'm trying the best I know how, Roger, but so far I've thought of nothing that would help us. But we must keep up brave hearts. Even the warlike Sioux have no reason to hate you and me. We have never hurt them in any way, and the most they can have against us is that we're white boys, and have come to their country without asking permission from Running Elk, their great chief." "But will they put us to the torture, as they do their red enemies whenever they make them prisoner?" Roger asked. "Perhaps not," answered his companion. "They may take a notion to adopt us into their tribe. Don't you think, Roger, that we'd make pretty good-looking Sioux braves? Both of us have dark hair, and, with some feathers in it, we'd pass for Indians right now. I've only got one little hope outside of that." "Then please tell me what it is, Dick, because things look so dark ahead of us." "Stop and remember, Roger, how it was when we were on that island, with the angry waters creeping up, and threatening to make us swim for it--we said then it was darkest before dawn, and didn't it turn out to be that way? Well, how can we tell but what the same thing may happen to us now, and that out of this capture by the Sioux great good may come?" "I only wish I had half your faith, Dick," sighed Roger; "but they've made up their minds what to do, and are turning this way, as if meaning to start off on a long tramp. Tell me before they come for us what that one little hope is, that you said you could see. And I pray that it may turn out for the best." "It is our guns, Roger," the other went on hastily. "What about them?" demanded Roger. "We will never be given a chance to snatch them away from the braves who are now carrying them so proudly. And, even if we did, what would two shots mean among twenty foes?" "You don't understand me," Dick replied. "Our guns are an object of curiosity to every warrior. They will be sure to carry them to the big chief, as his property. Of course not one of them knows a thing about how the 'shooting-sticks' are used to make the great noise, and cause the game to fall down, while no arrow is seen to shoot through the air. Then he will send for us, perhaps, and make us an offer to spare our lives if we will show him how to fire the guns, and be taken into the tribe. Yes, I think our only hope lies in the secret of shooting the fire and smoke from those guns. But here they come to get us now."