“Where’s Dick Lightfoot?”
“He was killed by Indians eight or ten miles back.”
“How do you come to be mounted on his pony?”
There was an aggressiveness in the tone and manner of Jenkins, but Alden ignored it. The circumstances warranted suspicion. So he told his story as succinctly as he could. The three listened closely, and must have felt the truth of the words of the youth whose looks and personality pleased them.
“You’ve got grit, young man,” commented Jenkins; “did you have any idea of the risks you had to run?”
“I saw Alexander Carlyle the first rider start from St. Joe last April, and on our way across the plains I have exchanged a few words with others. I knew it wasn’t any child’s play.”
“You’re right—it isn’t. Poor Dick! it will be a sad blow to his brother Sam. I suppose your friends will look after the body when they come up to it?”
“There’s no doubt of that; I sent word to Shagbark, our guide, who would do it without any such request from me.”
