“Wall, we ain’t dead yet,” came the reassuring tone; “try to git loose.” They both began to struggle to free themselves from the thongs. It seemed impossible. They worked and tugged till they were exhausted and sore. As they hung there resting, to try again, they suddenly heard the hoof beats of a horse. A moment more and it appeared with Flying Arrow on its back. The Indian rode swiftly up behind the trees to which the captives were bound, jerked out his hunting knife from its scabbard, and with a few swift strokes, cut the thongs that held them. This done, he sped back up the canyon without a word. As the Indian band was entering the gorge, the young chief had leaped from his horse, and, pretending to fix his saddle, had let his companions file past him. The moment they were out of sight, he had dashed back to free the prisoners. The band was just riding into camp when he caught up with them. “What you been doin’?” demanded the White Injun, as Flying Arrow rode up on his panting pony. “Fixin’ saddle.” “You lie,” snapped Nixon, half guessing the truth; for his suspicions had been aroused by the young brave’s actions in behalf of the captives during the council. The Indian’s eyes flashed angrily, but he held his tongue. “You been up to some Injun deviltry; now you keep your place while I’m chief, or I’ll horsewhip you.” Flying Arrow took the insult with princely poise. No outward sign revealed how deeply his proud heart was cut and Nixon supposed he had cowered under his abuse. The bully had something yet to learn of Indian nature. Uncle Dave and Fred, meanwhile, finding themselves free, staggered down the trail toward home together, inwardly blessing their deliverer and wondering the while what had caused him to befriend them. If the old mountaineer had got a good look at the young brave he might have guessed, for he had known Flying Arrow well. Some ten years before when he was trapping with the Indians, there was one boy papoose to whom he had taken a great fancy, a lithe and manly little fellow full of promise. The old trapper had won his confidence by little acts of kindness, and the boy had reciprocated the friendship. They had many pleasant hours chatting and fishing and hunting together. But the boy had changed so greatly since then that Uncle Dave did not recognize him quickly; Flying Arrow, however, could not forget “Long Beard,” as the Indians had named the old mountaineer. It is a beautiful trait with the Redmen always to remember their friends, and this was no ordinary friendship. When the weary hunters finally did reach their cabin along toward midnight, they found Buck patiently cropping the grass near by. On the saddle still hung the rifle and the mountain sheep. They quickly relieved his tired old back of its burdens and went in to prepare supper. “Do you think those devils will stir up more trouble for us?” asked Fred.