After his interview with Hank Putney, Iron Hand set out hastily to return to the rendezvous of his band. As he hurried along, a smile of exultation overspread his countenance, and he seemed to experience a secret feeling of joy at the success of his deep-laid schemes.
He would occasionally indulge in a low, smothered laugh, as some point of his plot more subtle than the rest would recur to his mind. As he drew near to the cave, he found his lieutenant at the entrance awaiting his approach.
“Well, lieutenant,” he exclaimed, addressing that officer, “what news?”
“There is a new applicant, an Indian, sir, who is desirous of joining the band.”
“A new recruit, eh, and an Indian too! This is strange intelligence. What do you know of him?”
“Nothing further, than he says that he has been forced to fly from beyond the lines of our enemy, the rebels. Indeed, he seemed ardently desirous of being enrolled as a member, and appears to bear a deep hatred toward his persecutors.”
“Is this all the knowledge you have of this fellow?”
“It is, sir.”
“You will send him to me then, immediately. But look ye, lieutenant, should he be admitted to the League, you will keep a vigilant watch on his movements.”
In a few moments afterward, Iron Hand was confronted in his apartments by this new aspirant for predatory honors.