“Ugh!” grunted the leader of the party.
“And the palefaces—where are they?”
“Gone.”
“Gone!” shouted the prostrate man, writhing like one undergoing torture. “Gone! You shall pay dearly for allowing him to escape!”
Long Gun kicked the half-burned faggots into a blazing pile. Then folding his arms upon his brawny chest, he answered composedly:
“Scar Face should not talk big and loud. See! He lies helpless, like a tethered dog. He can bark, but he cannot bite. He snaps and snarls, and finds fault with Long Gun and his warriors, because they did not capture the armed palefaces, in the black forest. But Scar Face could not overpower one unarmed paleface, in his own cabin. The young man joined his friends. They fought in the darkness and made their escape. My warriors bear the marks of the fight.”
“Fool!” Bradford bellowed chokingly. “Don’t stand there gloating over my predicament! Sever my bonds at once.”
The chief silently obeyed. Bradford struggled to his feet, shook himself, and rubbed his stiffened limbs. Then he inquired briskly:
“All three escaped?”
“Ugh!”