“Where?” Weston asked.

“Don’t you see him?” and Reynolds pointed to his left.  “Look, he is moving along the top of the hill toward where we heard the first shot.”

The form of a man could be seen, gliding swiftly and cautiously forward, carrying a rifle.  Only brief glimpses could be obtained of him as he emerged now and then from behind rocks and clumps of stunted trees, so it was impossible to make out whether he was a white man or an Indian.  At length he vanished entirely for several minutes, while the curious and anxious watchers waited for him to reappear.

It seemed to them much longer than it really was before they saw him again, and this time he was standing upon a huge rock motioning with his arms.

“Why, it’s Sconda!” Weston exclaimed in amazement.  “What does he want?” he asked, turning to Natsu, who all the time had remained perfectly silent.

“‘Come quick,’ Sconda say,” was the reply.

“Ask him what is the matter,” Weston ordered.

This Natsu at once did, but all the answer he received was the request to hurry.

“What ails the fellow, anyway?” Weston growled.  “Why can’t he tell us what’s wrong?  Anyway, we might as well go and find out for ourselves, for there is something mysterious about this whole affair.  Confound it all!  I want to make a further examination of this mine and see how far it extends.  This is certainly provoking.”

It did not take them long to reach the bed of the creek, although they received a number of bruises and scratches in the swift descent.  But the climb up the opposite hill was a difficult undertaking, and by the time they reached the top they were almost exhausted.  Here they rested a few minutes, and then hurried as fast as possible toward the spot from where Sconda had signalled his message.  The latter they did not again see until they had scrambled over a series of jagged rocks, and plowed their way through a tangle of scrubby bushes and trees.  At last they suddenly beheld him bending over something lying upon a rock, which as they drew nearer they found to be the form of a man.

Weston now was in the lead, and at the first glance he recognized the prostrate man.

“It’s the villain Dan!” he exclaimed.  “What in time is he doing here?  Is he dead?” he asked, turning to Sconda.

“Dan no dead,” was the reply.  “Dan all same sleep.”

“Unconscious, eh?” Weston queried as he stooped and felt the man’s pulse.  “He’s alive, all right, but bleeding.  Did you shoot him, Sconda?”

“Ah, ah, Sconda shoot.”

“Why did you shoot him?”

“Dan shoot first.  Dan shoot at Big White Chief,” and Sconda pointed to the cave across the ravine.

Weston looked at Reynolds as the light of comprehension dawned upon his mind.

“It seems to me that there is something in Indian presentiment, after all,” he confessed.  “How did you know that Dan was going to shoot me?” he asked Sconda.