From her the watcher's evil face turned to the Cree, who was skinning a deer that hung by the hams from a poplar crotch. The heavy, clammy odor of fresh blood hung thick in the air, filled his nostrils as he lay, like primitive man by the mouth of his enemy's cave, watching the knife slip around the carcass. Savage could not have been more wicked of intent. Again and again his hand gripped his own knife, always to fall again at sight of the rifle that leaned against the Red River cart, close to the Indian's hand. And thus he waited, baleful glance flickering between man and woman, till the deer was dressed and loaded upon the cart.
That modified without changing his purpose. "Going to camp first thing in the morning," he thought, as he crawled away. "Always goes alone."
Back once more with his team, he kicked the wet grass from the smudge, and after eating ravenously of the cook's provision by its flame, he spread his blankets and lay down, head propped on his hand, back to his team. He did not sleep; simply stared into the fire, or listened to the varied voices of the night. Now there would be a sighing, breathing among the trees, creaking of branches, soft rustlings. Then the night would talk loudly on a hush as of death—a loon laughed at the owl's solemn questioning, a fox barked among the sand-hills; the boom of a bittern came in from some dark lake; he heard the lynx scream again, loudly, shrilly, as a tortured child. Then the wind again, or a greater hush in which he heard only the crackling of his fire as he replenished its dying flame.
On these occasions a long trail of sparks would fly upward, and one, a tiny ember, at last wrought a strange thing. Passing over and behind him, it nested in the frazzle of tow at the knot of the stallion's frayed halter; where it smoked and glowed, growing larger, brighter. Lowering his ugly head, the beast sniffed at the strange red flower, then backed away as it burst into a bouquet of flame under his coaxing breath.
"Stan' still!" Michigan growled, without, however, looking around.
The stallion stood—till the end of the burned rope dropped to the ground.
Even then some time elapsed before he realized that he was free; but when he did—he turned white, wicked eyes on the resting man. Was that short worm the fiend that had ruled him? He stepped.
"Stan' still!" Michigan growled again.
The familiar voice gave the stallion pause—a moment. For, out of the tail of his eye, Michigan presently saw and became cognizant of a most curious thing—of a shadow, huge, black, upreared above himself.
Uttering a hoarse cry, he tried to rise—too late.