Crawford stared. He saw that all five were weary and hard-run, and realized that they had been following his trail. Thus far, they had not seen him, but discovery was inevitable. Sight of Maclish somewhat gratified him. Those cropped ears did not show for the long hair that now covered them, but the starry scar on the forehead was ineradicable. Phelim Burke was somewhat avenged, for Crawford could clearly read the changes in the face of Maclish, the things stamped there since his last sight of the man. Bestiality had come forth, stark animal fury—that branded star had stung him deeper than any other wound could have done. Spent as were his four warriors, he still seemed vigorous. He was striding up and down, as they tore at their food, and shook one red fist at the encircling forest.
“I’ll have ye yet, ye souple deil!” he muttered. “Mark Maclish, will ye? I’ll put marks on ye that the fiend himsel’ will look twice at! I’ll——”
The whitish eyes of Maclish fell upon the head and shoulders of Crawford protruding from the hillside talus. For one moment the man stood petrified—then, with a bellow to his men, hurled himself forward.
And thus was Hal Crawford trapped and taken.
Now, Maclish was not a man of wisdom, but of mere animal cunning. Into the Stone Men he had injected his own dream of capturing the Star Woman and thus forcing the Dacotah to a humiliating peace. That is, the younger men were so minded, for the older men of the tribe did not care to meddle with the Star Woman; but the smashing personality of Maclish drew all the more reckless warriors after him in torrential enthusiasm.
Had Maclish been wise, he would have sent back for his main force and awaited their arrival to attend to his prisoner. He could not do this. He was wildly exultant, striding back and forth, cursing Crawford furiously, roaring forth orders and raging like a madman in his triumph. The four Stone Men with him, nothing loath, readily gave up their rest for a more exciting pastime, and were glad to have the sport all to themselves. They gathered wood and heaped the fire until it became that rarest of things in Indian country—a crackling pillar of light, illumining all things distinctly, the ruddy reflection glinting against the carpet of the sky until it was visible for miles. Perhaps Maclish counted that it would bring his outflung scouting parties to the scene.
Crawford was dragged forward to two saplings standing six feet apart. He was lashed by each wrist to one of the saplings. The thongs about his ankles were then cut—and a warrior went staggering with a howl of agony as Crawford’s foot caught him squarely in the throat.
“So ye had to give a blow, eh?” Maclish came forward, pawing his red beard, and those glittering eyes of his devoured the captive. “Ye’ll dance for that! Try a kick on me if ye dare, and I’ll punch out an eye for ye!”
He bared his knife. Knowing the threat would be made good, Crawford stood quiet. Maclish came to him, ripped with hand and knife, and stripped Crawford naked to the waist. Then, with a chuckle, Maclish grasped the Star of Dreams and snatched it savagely away.
“A bonny toy!” he said softly, gloatingly, and thrust it into a pocket. Then he looked at Crawford and grinned. “You’ll have more than a pair o’ cropped ears when I’m done with ye. Put your mark on me, eh? Now, ye dog, I’ll have payment!”