backing, showing an inclination to whirl about and dash off. Alden patted his neck and spoke soothingly, but could not quiet him.
“He knows a good deal more than I do,” said the youth to himself.
Then, yielding to an impulse natural in the circumstances, Alden deftly slipped from the saddle and ran a few paces to the nearest rock behind which he crouched. The pony thus relieved of his burden, swung around as if on a pivot and dashed toward the plateau.
“He scented a party of Indians; they will be here in a minute or two. Heavens! how came I to overlook it?”
The exclamation was caused by the discovery that after firing at the dusky archer in the ravine, he had neglected to reload his rifle, a piece of forgetfulness for which Shagbark never would have forgiven him.
Alden drew a bullet from his pouch with which to repair the blunder, and then when he tried to force it down the muzzle, he made a terrifying discovery. He had failed to take the pouch from the body of Dick Lightfoot. His own bullets were too large for the bore of the smaller weapon, which was of no more use to him than a stick of wood!
