"Bah! you've listened too much to Indian legends, Chicot. That is no devil, but a man, like you or I, turned hermit like. To prove it, I'm going to follow after. Come on, boys! Let's go and see what Paul's devil is made of, anyhow," recklessly said Upshur, who was no coward, whatever else he might be.
Pale and disturbed, Chicot followed the boaster, and close behind came the other emigrants, curious to see the denouement. At the bowlder Upshur paused, with a harsh laugh.
"See!" and he pointed at the rocks before him. "Your devil bleeds, Paul, like an ordinary man. I thought I touched the rascal."
Here and there drops of blood sprinkled the rocky surface, and Chicot, though still skeptical, brightened up. After all, this wild-man was not proof against mortal weapons.
Laughing scornfully, Upshur led the way along the bloody trail, up the hillside, until it crossed the ridge, keeping a good look-out to guard against surprise, for none knew better than he what awkward weapons flint-headed arrows are, at close quarters, when guided by a strong and experienced hand. And after his wound, the wild-man would not be likely to stand on ceremony, should he be overtaken.
But overtaken he was not, at least on that occasion. The hillside seemed to be unoccupied, save by the trail-hunters, but Upshur suddenly paused, when half-way down the hill, shrinking back with a cry of horror.
Passing through the dense bushes, he had found himself upon the very verge of a steep precipice. Staggering back, he clutched the bushes, unmanned.
"Look yonder!" cried Chicot, pointing downward. "Now what do you say—is he a devil, or not?"
Swiftly racing along the narrow valley far below, was the form of the wild-man. To reach this, he must have descended the precipice, and that seemed beyond mortal skill to accomplish.
Wonderingly the emigrants watched him until he disappeared upon the further hill, then they slowly retraced their steps toward camp. The sun was far down in the west, and they had found no trace of the deserters.