Francis grinned. The only one in the wagon train foolish enough to carry a punch bowl had been Max’s mother—and she bragged about it every chance she got. No, it wouldn’t do to break it—especially if he did it.

“I’ll be careful,” Francis said, and started for the Petersons’ wagon.

“And make sure you don’t stray out of sight,” his father called. “Mr. Ballard says there’ve been some Pawnee in this area. They might like to get their hands on that little rifle of yours.”

This time they both smiled. The idea of Indians being around was pretty funny. All across the Kansas plains there had been talk of Indian trouble, and everybody worried about the Comanches. And they hadn’t, not once in the whole trip, even seen a feather—let alone an Indian. Francis was almost disappointed. He had looked forward to seeing Indians nearly as much as seeing the mountains.

Francis dropped back from the rear of the train, and failed to notice that he was falling too far back. His forgetfulness was caused by the little rifle. Shooting it was a dream. He couldn’t seem to miss, and it didn’t kick at all. He got so engrossed in firing it that he didn’t see the last wagon pull far ahead.

He lay still now, and tried to remember exactly what happened. He had fired about ten times, he knew, liking the little rifle more each time. On the eleventh or so shot, as he was loading, a large brown hand had clamped itself over his mouth.

His rifle had been grabbed first. There had been seven Indians—six young men and an older warrior. Probably a hunting party, because they hadn’t been wearing paint. Then Francis made his first mistake; instead of just relaxing and biding his time until he could get a chance to escape, he fought them. Kicking and swinging and biting, more out of fear than courage, he had given the seven Pawnees a rough few minutes. Finally they’d hit him, just a little tap in back of his ear with his own rifle butt, and he had fallen like a stone.

They had ridden all that day, with Francis draped head-down across the old man’s lap, bouncing like a sack of meal. He had passed into and out of consciousness on the trip, and had no idea where they finally dropped him—except that it was a dark and smelly place.

Now it was time to open his eyes. He opened them—then shut them as fast as he could.

Sitting above him, giving him a toothless grin, was the ugliest old person he’d ever seen—he couldn’t tell at first if it was a man or a woman. Just a wrinkled face and toothless mouth that smiled when Francis’s eyes came open.

———— Chapter Two ————