That morning one of the men went away. The other remained deaf to the prisoner’s appeals. But when the man returned he brought a bottle of liquor with him, and the two proceeded to celebrate. They drank and sang and had a high old time.
Cranch watched them, and finally what he hoped for happened. One of the men became stupefied and fell asleep. The other staggered over and made a pretense of examining the captive’s bonds.
"You’re all ri’," he said thickly. "Orders to let you go three closh this afternoon. Don’ worry. Goin’ to do it. ’Sall ri’."
Then he went back to the table, sat down, sprawled on his crossed arms, and soon fell asleep, also.
Thirty minutes later Cranch had freed one hand. Then he worked feverishly to accomplish what he desired. He succeeded finally, and proceeded to steal out of the room, leaving the drunken guards unmolested. He knew it was past noon, but he was not many miles from Fardale. He would be on hand at the game, and his heart leaped for joy. In a short time he was outside the dismal old mill and hurrying away.
Finding the grass-grown road, he ran pantingly along it.
"Oh, I’ll be on hand!" he exulted. "I’ll give them the surprise of their lives!"
At last he came to an old house, with a shed nearby. Wishing to get a view of the country, in order to see which course to pursue, he decided to climb to the top of the shed and look around. He found a broken ladder, and leaned it against the shed, after which he mounted to the roof and crept to the ridgepole. His survey from this point was unsatisfactory, and he was about to descend, when he saw the ladder jerked away.
A moment later Cranch uttered a cry of astonishment, for out from beneath the eaves of the old shed stepped an Indian. It was Old Joe Crowfoot, who took from beneath his red blanket a long knife, the edge of which he carefully felt with his thumb, his manner being most ominous.
"Ugh!" grunted the redskin, eying the fellow on the roof. "Heap sharp. Take white boy scalp much quick!"