enemy, he rose and examined the arrow again. There was enough light for him to see that the feathered shaft was exactly like that of the arrow they had found in the tree.
He pulled the weapon out of the ground and examined it with care. It had a triangular head of iron, with extremely sharp edges, and he shuddered again. If it had struck him, it would have gone through him as Bill Breakstone said the Comanche arrows sometimes went entirely through the body of a buffalo.
He took the arrow at once to the camp, and showed it to the men who were on guard there, telling how this feathered messenger--and he could not doubt that it was a messenger--had come. Woodfall and Middleton were awakened, and both looked serious. It could not be any play of fancy on the part of an imaginative boy. Here was the arrow to speak for itself.
"It must have been the deed of a daring Comanche," said Middleton with conviction. "Perhaps he did not intend to kill Phil, and I am sure that this arrow, like the first, was intended as a threat."
"Then it's wasted, just as others will be," said Woodfall. "My men do not fear Comanches."
"I know that," said Middleton. "It is a strong train, but we must realize, Mr. Woodfall, that the Comanches are numerous and powerful. We must make every preparation, all must stay close by the train, and there must be a strict night watch."
He spoke in a tone of authority, but it fitted so well upon him, and seemed so natural that Woodfall did not resent it. On the contrary, he nodded, and then added his emphatic acquiescence in words.
"You are surely right," he said. "We must tighten up everything."
This little conference was held beside some coals of a cooking fire that had not yet died, and Phil was permitted to stand by and listen, as it was he who had brought in the significant arrow. The coals did not give much light, and the men were half in shadow, but the boy was impressed anew by the decision and firmness shown by Middleton. He seemed to have an absolutely clear mind, and to know exactly what he wanted. Phil wondered once more what a man of that type might be seeking in the vast and vague West.
"I'll double the guard," said Woodfall, "and no man shall go out of sight of the train. Now, Bedford, my boy, you might go to sleep, as you have done your part of a night's work."
Phil lay down, and, despite the arrow so vivid in memory, he slept until day.
CHAPTER III
AT THE FORD
As Phil had foreseen, his latest story of warning found universal credence in the camp, as the arrow was here, visible to all, and it was passed from hand to hand. He was compelled to tell many times how it had whizzed by his face, and how he had found it afterward sticking in the earth. All the fighting qualities of the train rose. Many hoped that the Comanches would make good the threat, because threat it must be, and attack. The Indians would get all they wanted and plenty more.
"The Comanche arrow has been shot,
For us it has no terror;
He can attack our train or not,
If he does, it's his error,"
chanted Bill Breakstone in a mellow voice, and a dozen men took up the refrain: "He can attack our train or not, if he does, it's his error."
The drivers cracked their whips, the wagons, in a double line, moved slowly on over the gray-green plains. A strong band of scouts preceded it, and another, equally as strong, formed the rear-guard. Horsemen armed with rifle and pistol rode on either flank. The sun shone, and a crisp wind blew. Mellow snatches of song floated away over the swells. All was courage and confidence. Deeper and deeper they went into the great plains, and the line of hills and forest behind them became dimmer and dimmer. They saw both buffalo and antelope grazing, a mile or two away, and there was much grumbling because Woodfall would not let any of the marksmen go in pursuit. Here was game and fresh meat to be had for the taking, they said, but Woodfall, at the urgent insistence of Middleton, was inflexible. Men who wandered from the main body even a short distance might never come back again. It had happened too often on former expeditions.
"Our leader's right.
A luckless wight
Trusting his might
Might find a fight,
And then good night,"
chanted Bill Breakstone, and he added triumphantly:
"That's surely good poetry, Phil! Five lines all rhyming together, when most poets have trouble to make two rhyme. But, as I have said before, these plains that look so quiet and lonely have their dangers. We must pass by the buffalo, the deer, and the antelope, unless we go after them in strong parties. Ah, look there! What is that?"
The head of the train was just topping a swell, and beyond the dip that followed was another swell, rather higher than usual, and upon the utmost crest of the second swell sat an Indian on his horse, Indian and horse alike motionless, but facing the train with a fixed gaze. The Indian was large, with powerful shoulders and chest, and with an erect head and an eagle beak. He was of a bright copper color. His lips were thin, his eyes black, and he had no beard. His long back hair fell down on his back and was ornamented with silver coins and beads. He wore deerskin leggins and moccasins, sewed with beads, and a blue cloth around his loins. The rest of his body was naked and the great muscles could be seen.
The warrior carried in his right hand a bow about one half the length of the old English long bow, made of the tough bois d'arc or osage orange, strengthened and reinforced with sinews of deer wrapped firmly about it. The cord of the bow was also of deer sinews. Over his shoulder was a quiver filled with arrows about twenty inches in length, feathered and with barbs of triangular iron. On his left arm he carried a circular shield made of two thicknesses of hard, undressed buffalo hide, separated by an inch of space tightly packed with hair. His shield was fastened by two bands in such a manner that it would not interfere with the use of the arm, and it was so hard that it would often turn a rifle shot. Hanging at his horse's mane was a war club which had been made by bending a withe around a hard stone, weighing about two pounds, and with a groove in it. Its handle of wood, about fourteen inches in length, was bound with buffalo hide.
Apparently the warrior carried no firearms, using only the ancient weapons of his tribe. His horse was a magnificent coal black, far larger than the ordinary Indian pony, and he stood with his neck arched as if he were proud of his owner. The Indian's gaze and manner were haughty and defiant. It was obvious to every one, and a low murmur ran among the men of the train. Phil recognized the warrior instantly. It was Black Panther, no longer the sodden haunter of the levee in the white man's town, but a great chief on his native plains. Phil looked at Middleton, who nodded.
"Yes," he said, "I know him. He has, of course, been watching us, and knows every mile of our march. Unless I am greatly mistaken, Phil, this is the third warning."
Woodfall had ridden up by the side of Middleton, and the latter said that Black Panther would probably speak with them.
"Then," said Woodfall, "you and I, Mr. Middleton, will ride forward and see what he has to say."
Phil begged to be allowed to go, too, and they consented. Woodfall hoisted a piece of white cloth on the end of his rifle, and the Indian raised his shield in a gesture of understanding. Then the three rode forward. The whole of the wagon train was massed on the swell behind them, and scores of eyes were watching intently for every detail that might happen.
The Indian, after the affirmative gesture with the shield, did not move, but he sat erect and motionless like a great bronze equestrian statue. The blazing sunlight beat down upon horse and man. Every line of the warrior's face was revealed--the high cheek-bone,