“I wouldn’t think of shooting the dog, if I were you. His owner might raise objections. Perhaps I can help you out of your dilemma.”—Then to the dog:—“Here, Duke! Come here and lie down.”
Reluctantly the bloodhound obeyed, still growling. Farley and Bright Wing kept their distance. The man had recoiled a step. Now he recovered himself and mumbled surlily:
“What’s you an’ y’r infernal cur out here stoppin’ honest people fer?”
“What were you doing at the river shore?” Ross returned boldly.
The man’s hand flew to his belt. Dimly Douglas discerned the shadowy movement. Bright Wing’s eagle eyes saw it, too; and the sharp click of his flintlock broke the stillness. The man peered in the direction whence the ominous sound came—and his hand dropped to his side, as he answered in a husky voice:
“I was jest wanderin’ ’round the camp—I couldn’t sleep. I was goin’ back to my place when y’r dog stopped me. You’d better keep the cross brute tied up o’ nights, ’r somebody ’ll kill him. Git out o’ my way.”
And he made a move to leave the spot.
“Wait a moment,” Douglas requested. “When you spoke to the dog, your language marked you as an educated gentleman. Explain.”
“I don’t have to give no explanations to you ’bout anything—you ain’t no officer,” was the defiant reply.