"But should—if you should not return as you expect?"
"True—I forgot. Give me your hand. There—that is clay. By loosening that you will find a passage that will lead you out upon the hill. Dig twenty feet and you will come to a rock. Press hard against it, with your shoulder, and you will roll it out. Here is a knife with which you can dig. But don't attempt that for at least half an hour. There is no danger of the heathen reaching you here, for, even if they attempt it, I shall be in the way—and one man, with a knowledge of this trail, is equal to a thousand in open ground. Remember—wait half an hour."
The hermit rapidly retraced his steps. He was now totally unarmed, but felt little concern on that score. He possessed a knowledge that was equal to an armory.
Pausing upon the bridge of rock, the hermit glared out upon the swooning renegade, over whom stooped two braves, seeking to check the flow of blood that saturated his garments. A devilish light deepened in the hermit's eyes. He saw that the renegade still lived—possibly might recover, and a bitter curse hissed through his grating teeth as he groped around the edge of the rock with his hand.
Then again he stood erect, a rugged fragment in either hand. True as the bullet from a hunter's rifle the rock sped through the air. Full upon the bended head of the nearest savage it fell, crushing in the skull bone. The second brave sprung hastily to his feet. The other rock struck him upon the breast, felling him like a shot. Laughing horribly, the hermit sprung forward, bending over the terror-stricken renegade.
The wounded savage utters a faint cry, and partially rising, flings his knife at the hermit. The sharp blade sinks deep in the fleshy part of the shoulder, but is unheeded by the seeming madman. The moaning White Wolf is raised bodily from the blood-stained rock, and borne to the edge of the muttering, rumbling abyss. A moment—then a horrible shriek rings through the hollow hill as his body descends like a shot; a sullen splash—then all is silence save the grumbling tones of the water fiend.
And now the hermit stood possessed of a knife, a hatchet, a stout bow, and tolerably well-filled quiver.
With ready bow he glided silently along, choosing the deepest shadow, where the glow of the fire could not penetrate. He seemed to have only thought for vengeance. He knew that he was death-stricken—in his madness he resolved to exact a heavy compensation. His death would be a dear one to the Osages.
He paused, the phosphorescent glitter deepening in his eyes as he caught sight of several human forms, crouching close to the rugged walls, their attention turned toward the cave entrance, their weapons in readiness for instant use. They were Indians. He could distinguish them quite plainly by the light of day beyond, though from the ledge they would be invisible.
After escaping the death threatened by the bowlder, Boone had led his men upon the ledge, winning it by a fierce though momentary struggle. The Indians retreated into the cave darkness. To follow them there would be little short of madness, and the Wood King called a halt to consult upon the best plan of procedure. Lying close to either side of the entrance they waited. Inside were the savages; beyond them the hermit, all unsuspected, the fires of insanity blazing in his eyes, as he bent the stout bow.