Half a dozen Indians leaped from their ponies to obey. In their scramble one of them brushed too close to old Buck, and the old horse kicked savagely, sending the Redskin head over heels into a bunch of willows. The band roared with laughter at their companion’s upset; while the old horse snorted and plunged through the band down the canyon, with two bucks on their ponies after him. As they neared the runaway, Buck kicked again, landing squarely on the head pony’s shoulder. They tried in vain to head him back, but he dodged and finally escaped; and they came whooping back to their comrades. “You cowardly cur!” Fred broke out, as Nixon with the others grabbed him and began to tie his arms with buckskin thongs, “I’ll--” “Keep cool, boy, cool,” came the quiet voice of the old mountaineer. Fred held his tongue, but his heart thumped with distress and anger. “Now git across that creek,” ordered the White Injun. “Hustle up!” he fetched Fred a stinging blow with his quirt. The boy, furious with the insult, could hardly hold his temper; but he obeyed, plunging through the icy stream behind Uncle Dave, with Bud on his pony, crowding and splashing them. “Nothin’ like cold water for keepin’ cool,” jeered Nixon. “You know it, damn you!” retorted Fred, unable to restrain himself. “Shut up!” snapped his tormentor, giving him another biting crack with his quirt. “Strike again, you dirty devil!” Fred defied him, tugging at the thongs. “Quiet, boy, quiet,” cautioned the old mountaineer. “I’ll larn ye to be impudent with your betters,” snarled the bully, cutting the boy a third time. They had reached the main trail; the White Injun ordered the captives lashed to some pine trees that stood near; then with his band he withdrew to a spot some rods away and held a council. The mountaineer studied their movements carefully, but he could not divine their purpose. “What will they do with us?” asked Fred anxiously. “I dunno, boy, but keep cool, whatever comes.” “Will they murder us?” The boy’s face was tense and pale. “Wall, we ain’t dead yet; it’ll take all of ’em to agree to that; that dirty white is stirrin’ up some mischief, but I can’t tell just what.” They could not hear what was being said. A whoop came from the savages; they leaped on their ponies and came dashing back. “Keep yer head, boy,” cautioned Uncle Dave, his voice still steady, but in his heart were serious misgivings as to the outcome. The band circled round their captives, yelling and whooping, and occasionally taking a shot. Two of the bucks flung their knives into the trees just above the prisoners’ heads; then Nixon capped the brutal scare by emptying his revolver at the knives. This done, the band gave a furious yell and burst away up the canyon. Fred, dazed with fright, could hardly rouse himself to the reality that they were gone, when Uncle Dave called gently, “Hev they hurt ye, boy?” “I guess not,” the voice trembled, “but they’ve left us here to die.”