“We’ll ride a little farther; we have plenty of time to make camp before dark.”
“Dere ain’t no sense in doing dat,” growled Jethro, who dared not leave the side of his comrade and master.
Less than fifteen minutes later the two rode round the bend in the path. Alden passed slightly ahead of his companion, but his pony had taken less than a dozen steps, when he sharply drew the rein with a startled exclamation.
He did not need to add anything by way of explanation. No more than a hundred yards distant the pony of Dick Lightfoot was standing motionless, with his head upraised and staring in alarm at the opposite bluffs. Not ten feet from his hoofs lay his master on the ground face downward. An Indian arrow projecting from his back, the feathered end pointing toward the sky, told its dreadful story.
