But Ross made no reply. Tossed by a tempest of rage, he whirled and strode away to a distant part of the inclosure. Bradford silently watched the young man until he disappeared among the groups of savages. Then the older man sunk his chin upon his breast and groaned bitterly:
“He hates me—despises me! God! How great is my punishment! I love him; I would gladly shed my last drop of blood for him. And he loathes me—would murder me!”
A few minutes later, he was his cool, collected self; and was moving from place to place, searching for Douglas.
CHAPTER VI.
It was the middle of the forenoon. Ross Douglas stood at one of the openings in the palisade, moodily watching the stream of savages filing through the gateway and setting out upon their journey toward Wildcat Creek, twenty miles away. The sun was bright; the air was light and warm. But Ross’s heart was cold and heavy. His emotions were at war. He condemned the impetuosity that had led him into such a trap, and pronounced himself a fool. He cursed the cowardice of the soldiers who had neglected to follow up their advantage, and had left him to fall into the hands of the Indians. And he gritted his teeth when he thought of Bradford, who—as he thought—had meanly deceived and tricked him. Then his thoughts reverted to Franklinton and Amy Larkin—and he groaned aloud.
“Let’s be moving; we have a long tramp before us.”
He glanced up and encountered the gaze of Bradford.
“What’s our destination?” Ross inquired stiffly.