With trembling hands the old man fumbled in the pocket of his buckskin jacket, brought forth his rude match case made of two cartridge shells, found a match and struck it. He lighted the candle upon the table, and then glanced anxiously about the room. Seeing Grey huddled upon the floor, he sprang to his side with a peculiar cry, half rage and half sympathy.
"Are ye hurt, pardner?" he demanded. "Have the wretches knifed ye?"
"No, Dan," came the reply. "I'm all right now, but unloosen these cords, quick."
With two swift strokes of his hunting knife Dan severed the bonds. Instantly Grey sprang to his feet, and looked around the cabin. He reached out his hand, and clutched a rifle leaning against the wall.
"Give me your revolver, Dan, and some cartridges. You stay here; I don't want you to run any risk."
The trapper, however, maintained his position. He noted the flushed face of his companion and the wild gleam in his eyes.
"Whar are ye goin'?" he asked. "An' what d'ye want with the guns?"
"Going? I'm going after those devils, who trapped, bound and led me here to die. But for your timely arrival I would now be a corpse on this very floor."
Across Dan's face spread an angry cloud. His rough, hard fingers clinched with a sudden grip.
"Was it Bill an' Pete?" he hoarsely whispered. "Was it them varmints?"