Moravy had a story to tell which sent a chill of horror to the hearts of the iron hangmen who surrounded him, and in rough but eloquent language he told the story of Rosebud Dan’s singular capture and the death of the Creole Antenat.
At the mention of the Wolf’s cognomen an attentive listener on the outer rim of the spell-bound circle started as if struck in the side by a dirk.
This was Red Crest.
What! the man whom he had helped to swing over a beam still alive, and capable of taking human life with the revolver?
The Indian was superstitious; he could not believe all of Moravy’s narrative.
A spirit, not a living being, had entered the cave and taken Antenat’s life.
But, thought the Sioux a moment later, the guards lassoed something tangible; they dragged it into the cavern, and it was this person who shot and killed.
Red Crest, if questioned about the matter at that time, would have told the story of Deadly Dan’s hanging.
“What do you say, Indian?”