"It's just—weakness," gasped Norton. "A touch of fever, I think. Get Red Hugh—put him on the trail of Grigg. I'll be all right with a bit of rest. Hurry, man!"
Audubon looked about, biting his lips. Before he could reply, however, a bush to one side of them waved slightly, the sunlight glinted on a rifle-barrel, and a voice rang out in harsh command:
"Hands up, you skunk! Drop that rifle—quick!"
Helpless, the naturalist obeyed. Norton tried to reach his rifle, but could not move, and with another groan of despair fell back, waiting grimly for what might come.
CHAPTER VIII
Into the clearing before them stepped a strange figure, rifle still covering the startled Audubon—a tall man clad in buckskin and coonskin cap, with, of course, moccasins. He was gaunt and huge-boned, grey hair falling over his shoulders and a grizzled red moustache and beard half-hiding his face. For all that, Norton was startled by the man's features.
They were anything but those of a riverman. True, the sunken grey eyes held a smouldering ferocity which was almost madness; but the high brow, fine nose, and shapely head, even the delicate lines of mouth and chin beneath the flowing beard—all these expressed a keen intelligence, almost a nobility, which was utterly astounding to Norton.
"What's this—what's this!" The stranger lowered his rifle suddenly as his eyes fell on Norton's features. Carefully uncocking the weapon, he stared at the two friends, an indescribable expression of chagrin overspreading his countenance. "Gentlemen, I must crave your pardon. From his moccasins I took this gentleman for an Indian,"—and he gravely indicated Norton—"for he is deeply browned and his features were all but hidden from me. God be thanked I did not shoot first!"
"Amen to that!" cried Norton feebly, essaying a faint smile. Audubon, no less astonished at the looks and speech of the stranger, made a slight bow, and spoke coldly: