And then suddenly--when it was about noon--he came upon the Scotsman's pack-horse quietly grazing beneath the trees, and at a little distance Alf sitting on the ground with Red Fox prostrate, resting his head on the lad's lap.

CHAPTER XVII

THE FATE OF RED FOX

It may seem a little surprising that Alf did not make a better resistance when he found himself being carried away on horseback. It is no easy matter for even an Indian to carry a person lying in front of him on a bare-backed broncho when the person is helpless and still. It is a yet less easy matter--if not an impossibility--to do the same thing with a struggling captive.

Of course we know that Holden was at a disadvantage. He was powerless to use his arms, which were held close to his sides by the wrappings, and it was with difficulty that he breathed. But his legs were comparatively free, and it would not have required much energy to make such resistance as would have considerably hampered Red Fox in his purpose.

The reason for the lad's pa.s.sive demeanour is not difficult to understand.

Alf was no fool. Indeed, he possessed a more than usual degree of common sense, together with a gift for rapid reasoning. He quickly decided that, for the time being at least, he was at the Indian's mercy. His instinct told him that, for some unknown reason, he must have incurred the native's wrath; and, even though he might have struggled with a measure of success, the Indian was both powerful and pa.s.sionate enough to murder him then and there.

No person, even in the direst straits, is anxious to incur a violent death. Holden was no exception to that rule, so he deemed it best to make pretence of fainting, on the chance that time might release him from his plight. It would only be a needless exhaustion to struggle now, when he would be easily overpowered. Moreover, a show of resistance might mean the sudden plunge of a hunting-knife.

So he lay still, and the Indian laughed aloud, believing the lad to be unconscious through fright.

"Huh! White dog laugh at Red Fox? He say Red Fox face hideous?" the redskin exclaimed jeeringly, as he pressed the horse to the race. "'Tis well. Red Fox face bad--very bad; but white boy worse when Indian hand have used knife!"

Then the boy understood the mystery. His careless words _had_ been understood, as Bob had suggested. And his fate was to be vengeance of a like mutilation of his own fair cheeks!

Not if he knew it!

It was little wonder if the lad felt his blood run cold as he listened to the Indian's vaunt, and it is little wonder that his head swam until he was near in reality to the very faintness that he had a.s.sumed.

But real pluck is never subdued for long. The very threat was enough to rouse a strong determination to thwart the brutal intention, and his mental decision was that which we have just recorded in the third person: "Not if I know it!"

Red Fox had quite forgotten about the ermine robe. That was quite Indian-like. The object of the moment was all that he cared about. To gain that aim he would have sacrificed a thousand robes of costliest fur--nay, even life itself, if he could have the satisfaction of vengeance first.

Guiding the broncho by the swaying of his body and the occasional use of a halter-rope, the redskin did not permit the animal to slacken speed for an instant.

Once, owing to the stillness of his burden, he drew aside a portion of the blanket to look at the boy's face.

He saw that the eyes were closed, and a fear came into his heart that perhaps he was to be robbed of his pleasure after all.

But the lips trembled, and, on bending down the Indian could hear the sound of breathing.

"Huh!" he laughed, as he replaced the cloth. "That good! Pale-face--he sleep, but he wake soon when Red Fox make sign of totem. Then white boy laugh not again at Indian. Red Fox, he laugh at hideous white boy."

A peal of harsh, savage laughter rang through the woods at this delicious humour, and startled the horse so that it strained harder in the gallop.

Through the woods, the burnt clearing, across the marsh where Bob had tracked so steadily, the broncho pa.s.sed in the mad race. It was rough riding for the boy as he lay on his back--half across the Indian's knee, with his head partly free of the blanket; but he set his teeth, determined to bear the ordeal without a whimper, that he might be more ready for the later critical moment.

Then something (he never knew what) startled the horse. It sprang sideways from the path right into the bush, where a heavy branch caught Red Fox right in the forehead.

One cry the Indian gave. Next moment both the riders were thrown violently to the ground, while the broncho went off wildly and riderless.

The folds of the blanket considerably lessened the shock of Alf's fall, and as soon as he had collected his rudely scattered senses he did not take long to emerge from his chrysalis-like state.

He sprang to his feet, prepared to be instantly on the defensive.

To his surprise he was unaccosted, and on turning he saw the Indian lying face downwards upon the ground, while a red stream was making a ghastly pool around his head.

Holden was by his enemy's side in an instant. He knelt down and turned the man on his back. The movement was answered by a groan, but apparently the Dacotah was unconscious, for he did not attempt to move, and his eyes were closed.

A spring was close at hand. Alf tore off the scarf that he wore round his throat in bushman fashion, soaked it in the water, and mopped the redman's brow. Still there was no sign of returning senses, and the lad was now grievously distressed at his enemy's disaster. He would have been rejoiced to have vanquished the man, had the adventure terminated in an unavoidable encounter. But now that Red Fox was in distress, all hard feelings and resentment had left the lad's heart. He was all sympathy for misfortune. That is the way of the truly brave.

Seeing that recovery was tardy, Alf tore the scarf in two pieces. With one strip he bound the ugly wound that gaped in the Indian's forehead; with the other he resumed his attentions by moistening his lips and temples.

And by and by the redman opened his eyes. He looked up vacantly before him, not seeming to understand what had taken place.

"That's good!" remarked Alf cheerfully. "You feel better now, don't you?"

Red Fox looked straight into the boy's face, but without appearing to recognise him. Then he muttered a few words in Indian and closed his eyes again.

For some time he lay with his head resting against his nurse, while Alf's thoughts began to wander to his absent father and the chum whom he had left in such strange fashion.

Then he looked down again, and saw that the Indian was regarding him with eyes wide open--looking at him in a peculiar wondering fashion, as if he saw for the first time a being of some strange creation.

Holden smiled encouragingly as he touched the man's brow with the damp cloth.

"How does the head feel now?" he asked. "Does the cut pain you much?"

Red Fox did not answer immediately, but continued to stare at the lad with the same open-eyed wonder.

"Pale-face kind," he said at length, in quiet tones. "He touch Red Fox like wing of a dove. Why is the white boy so good?"

"Nonsense," returned Alf. "It's nothing at all. You don't think that Englishmen would leave a fellow to bleed to death, do you?"

"No--English boy good," said the redskin. Then he added, with a sort of wistfulness: "But Indian would leave pale-face----"

"Rot!" was the sharp interruption. "If I had been hurt as you have been, you would do just the same. Now lie quiet for a while. You'll feel better soon, and then you can go back to your people."

The Indian shook his head slowly.

"Red Fox understand. Red Fox know English tongue good. But--he no' go back to people. He go--Manito--Happy Hunting-ground--soon."

Alf was silent. He had never been in the presence of death, and never before in the presence of the dying. The thought awed him.

"Yes--white papoose good," the redskin went on falteringly. "He kind to hand--that would have cut face for revenge. Ugh! Red Fox bad Indian, but--he sorry--now. Can brave white boy forgive poor Indian?"

"Of course," returned Alf huskily. "You did not understand. English people speak words that they do not mean to hurt. It is I who should ask forgiveness for what I said about you. I, too, am sorry."

"Then--white and red are--brothers. They bury the hatchet and--my white brother will stay with Red Fox while he go Happy Hunting-ground?"