At first he imagined that it was a white man painted and disguised, but one searching glance not only removed that impression, but revealed the identity of his captor.

It was Lone Wolf, whom he had baffled the night before in the wood.
"It's all up with me now," was the thought of Fred, when this intelligence flashed upon him.

"He will never forgive me for the way I stopped him last night.

How sorry I am that I didn't shoot him when I had such a good chance!" For one minute he thought of appealing to his mercy, but a brief reflection convinced him that that was worse than useless, and he abandoned the idea as absurd.

He was old enough to know that Indians are merciless.
It will be remembered that night was closing in when Fred was captured and a few minutes later, when he turned his head back toward New Boston, he was unable to distinguish a single house.
The mustang bearing captor and prisoner dropped into an easy gallop, passing entirely out of the valley and a short distance over the prairie, where, when he halted, he found himself amid some thirty or forty mounted Apaches.