Reading the exploits of Fremont fascinated the gallant lad.
As his foot falls wearily, the flame of his enthusiasm flickers
very low.
Turning at the end of his post he starts in alarm. Whizz! around
his neck settles a pliant coil, cast twenty yards, like lightning.
His cry for help is only a gurgle. The lasso draws tight. Dark
forms dart from the chaparral. A rough hand stifles him. His arms
are bound. A gag is forced in his mouth. Dragged into the bushes,
his unknown captors have him under cover.
The boy feels with rage and shame his arms taken from his belt.
His rifle is gone. A knife presses his throat. He understands the
savage hiss, "Vamos adelante, Gringo!" The party dash through the
chaparral.
Valois, bruised and helpless, reflects that his immediate death
seems not to be his captors' will. Will the camp be attacked? Who
are these? The bitter words show them to be Jose Castro's scouts.
Is there a force near? Will they attack? All is silent.
In a few minutes an opening is reached. Horses are there. Forced to
mount, Maxime Valois rides away, a dozen guards around him. Grim
riders in scrapes and broad sombreros are his escort. The guns
on their shoulders and their jingling machetes prove them native
cavalry.
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