Lying on the floor of the defile, lay the Indian, with a deep gash
across his forehead, where it had struck a sharp rock. His ugly face was
covered with blood, making it additionally hideous.
By the side of the Indian lay Dick's precious rifle, and he stooped to
pick it up. As he did so, something glistened beside it, and Dick picked
it up.
It was the little, round mirror that the Indian had worn around his
neck. Dick pocketed it for proof of his adventure when he should again
reach camp, and, picking up his rifle, climbed upon Spraddle's back,
turned him around, and drove down the defile.
When he reached the open valley it was as bright as day, and under his
coaxing and kind words the tired little pony, relieved of the Indian's
weight, picked up his feet and set forth at a brisk pace into the west,
in which direction Dick knew the cow camp lay.
It was almost daylight when Bill McCall, the cook, roused from his
blankets to begin the preparations for breakfast. He leaped to his feet
and listened.
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