Norman saw his father’s brow contract, for the last words sounded very suspicious, and the lad asked himself whether this was a piece of cunning on the part of the black.
But just then Shanter caught sight of the spear lying upon the ground, where it had been thrown by the captain after he had drawn it from the cow’s back.
The black made a dash and pounced upon it, his movement to secure the weapon putting both the captain and his brother on their guard, as they watched the fellow’s movements.
As soon as he had the weapon in his hand, he examined the point, still wet with blood, looked sharply from one to the other, and then excitedly pointed to the spear end.
“How this fellow come along?” he cried.
“Some one threw it, and speared the little cow,” cried Rifle.
“Where little bull-cow fellow—go bong?”
“No; in the paddock. Did you throw that spear, Shanter?”
“Mine throw? Baal!” cried the black. “Plenty mine spear,” and he pointed to where his own spear stuck in the ground.
“I can’t trust him, Rifle, my boy,” said the captain, firmly. “I’m afraid it is his work, and this is a cunning way of throwing us off the scent.”