Solomon's face had darkened with anger. There were deep furrows across his brow.
Standing before Jack about three feet away, he drew out his ram rod and tossed it to the young man, who caught it a little above the middle. Jack knew the meaning of this. They were to put their hands upon the ram rod, one above the other. The last hand it would hold was to do the killing. It was Solomon's.
"Thank God!" he whispered, as his face brightened.
He seemed to be taking careful aim with his right eye.
"It's my job," said he. "I wouldn't 'a' let ye do it if ye'd drawed the chanst. It's my job--proper. They ain't an hour ahead. Mebbe--it's jest possible--he may go to sleep to-night 'fore I do, an' I wouldn't be supprised. They'll build their fire at the Caverns on Rock Crick an' roast a captive. We'll cross the bush an' come up on t' other side an' see what's goin' on."
They crossed a high ridge, with Solomon tossing his feet in that long, loose stride of his, and went down the slope into a broad valley. The sun sank low and the immeasurable green roofed house of the wild was dim and dusk when the old scout halted. Ahead in the distance they had heard voices and the neighing of a horse.
"My son," said Solomon as he pointed with his finger, "do you see the brow o' the hill yonder whar the black thickets be?"
Jack nodded.
"If ye hear to me yell stay this side. This 'ere business is kind o' neevarious. I'm a-goin' clus up. If I come back ye'll hear the call o' the bush owl. If I don't come 'fore mornin' you p'int fer hum an' the good God go with ye." "I shall go as far as you go," Jack answered.
Solomon spoke sternly. The genial tone of good comradeship, had left him.