“Who the deuce can it be?” mused Boone, as, a helpless prisoner on the couch of skins, he watched the movements of the unknown.
“It ain’t Kenton or Lark, I’m putty sure, ’cos it’s too big for either of ’em. Who on yearth can it be? A friend, anyway, and friends are allers welcome, particularly when a feller’s in sich a ’tarnal tight place as I am now. I s’pect they’ll roast me to-morrow, and eat me, too, for that matter, if I wasn’t so ’tarnal tough.”
Swelling on the night-air came the distant whoops of the savages.
Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, the unknown let fall the skin that served as the wigwam door, and again advanced to Boone.
“Say, stranger, this is a pesky fix,” said Boone, in a low and cautious tone.
The unknown answered not, but knelt by the side of the prostrate man.
Then Boone felt two powerful arms seize him, and roll him over on his side. As the hands of the mysterious stranger touched him, Boone felt a cold shiver creep all over him. The hands of the stranger seemed to be armed with claws like the paws of a beast.
“Jerusalem, stranger!” muttered Boone, “you ought to cut your finger-nails; they stick right into a feller; and why didn’t you tell me to turn over? I kin do that well enough, although I’m in a pesky fix hyer.”
Then Boone heard the slight grating noise that a knife makes cutting through leather.
The old hunter guessed the truth in an instant. The mysterious unknown was cutting the thongs that bound his arms.