All this that was passing about the fire was observed by the scout. Nothing escaped his eye from the place of his concealment behind the trunk of a giant tree. There, silent and immovable as the tree itself, he stood waiting for the moment to come when he could strike for the deliverance of the captives. To him, each savage about the fire was doomed. In his own mind he had surely decreed their death.
His plan for their destruction was laid, and when the proper moment came, he had no fears but what he should carry it into execution.
More than the number now before him had died by his unaided arm, on occasions before this.
The minutes glided on and told the hours, and at last the evening was well advanced.
Satisfied at last with their inspection of the peddler’s pack, the savages replaced its contents—much to the relief of the Yankee—and after assuring themselves that the captives were firmly held in their thongs, they gathered about the fire for rest.
From his hiding-place behind the tree, the Death-Dealer watched their every movement.
He saw that the moment for action had nearly come—the time for the deliverance of his friends was close at hand.
He knew that the savages had been without sleep the night before, and when once they were buried in slumber they would not easily awaken.
Minute after minute went by, and at last the savages were as motionless as though they were held in the icy fetters of death. Then, with his rifle in his left hand, and his knife firmly clenched in his right, he glided from his hiding-place behind the tree, and moved noiselessly toward the camp-fire.
Only a pale light flashed out from it now. The flames had gone down, and a few smoldering embers alone marked the spot where it had been, revealing but partly the forms of the savages outstretched beside it.