Back in the woods a fine buck came walking along the narrow path. When fully six rods from the creek he suddenly stopped, and lifting his delicate muzzle snuffed the air inquiringly. The next instant his tail was lifted, showing the white of the under side, the “white flag,” as the hunters term it, and with a bound he was off in the forest.
A few minutes later a dark form cautiously came along, careful not to break a twig beneath his moccasined feet. He was naked except for a breech-clout. The tuft of feathers fastened to his “top-knot” and the paint on his face indicated that he was on the warpath.
Turning, the Indian followed the narrow trail in the direction of the creek for a short distance and then, leaving the path, made a detour on the side where Rodney had taken his station.
The boy slept! The sun had gone down and only 43 twilight remained. He dreamed that a huge bear appeared on the path, its shambling feet softly treading. He tried to raise his rifle but his arms were powerless, seemed paralyzed! The bear came on, now faster. Stopping before him it rose on its hind legs and hugged him with its fore paws, and he struggled to scream but could not utter a sound. He opened his eyes. A brawny hand was over his mouth, a powerful arm about his arms pinioned them to his side. The hand was red, and on the wrist was a copper bracelet!
A guttural voice spoke low but harshly in his ear: “Um no speak. Die!”
Then the boy felt his arms being bound with leather thongs and he looked into the face of the savage, saw the hideous paint on it, the bright, beady eyes, the whites of which looked yellow; noted the high cheekbones, the nose like an eagle’s beak, the cruel mouth like a thin slit in the face, and fear was upon him, such, as he never had known.
“Halloo.”
Surely that was Ferguson’s voice, and must be calling him.
“Halloo!”
The last call was from the other side and it was not Ferguson’s voice.