They had been about three hours on the way when a tramping sound was heard, and Dobbin came running up to the party, whinnying with joy.
“There’s nothing amiss with him,” said Tom joyfully. “I wonder how he got away from the man that stole him. Are you glad to get back, old fellow?”
There could be no doubt on that point, for the horse seemed content and happy.
“Where’s old Silverthorn, I wonder?” said Tom.
The country through which the Cooper party were now travelling was partially wooded. Soon, however, they would reach the long and barren stretch of country—the great salt plain—which was the dread of all overland parties. Then there would be no woods till they approached the borders of the Golden State.
About the middle of the afternoon, while the oxen were plodding along at the rate of barely two miles an hour, they received a surprise.
Tom Cooper, whose eyes were the sharpest, called out suddenly:
Grant looked, but had to approach nearer before he could realize the situation. Then he saw a white man tied to a slender tree, while half a dozen Indians were dancing round him, uttering a series of guttural cries, which appeared to fill the captive with intense dread. It was too far to distinguish the features of the prisoner, but when they came nearer Tom cried out, “Dang me, if it aint Silverthorn!”
It was indeed Dionysius Silverthorn, and his plight was certainly a serious one.
“We must rescue him,” answered Tom. “He’s a mean rascal, and he’s repaid our hospitality by robbing us; but we can’t let him be killed by those redskins.”
By this time the Indians had caught sight of the approaching party. They ceased dancing and appeared to be conferring together. When Silverthorn saw that some of his own color were at hand he uttered a loud cry, and would have stretched out his hands if they had not been fettered.
“Help me! help me!” he cried. “Save me from these fiends!”
The Indians—six in number—seeing that there were but three in the approaching party, took courage and decided to maintain their ground. They uttered, a yell and fired a volley of arrows, one of which whizzed by Grant’s ear.
He raised his rifle, and, aiming at the foremost Indian, fired deliberately. The redskin fell, pierced to the heart.
