“Good old Sicum,” Jack said as he threw his arms about the dog’s neck.
Sicum gave vent to a low whine as if to say that he was glad to have been of service.
“Git rope,” Kernertok ordered, and in another moment Pierre was tied hand and foot. He made no resistance as the dog stood close by showing his teeth.
The man’s throat, although bleeding, was but slightly torn, and after a hasty examination they turned their attention to the other man who still lay where he had fallen. He was breathing heavily and, as Jack bent over him, he slowly opened his eyes. He too had had all desire for fighting taken out of him, and offered no resistance as Kernertok bound his hands and feet.
A search through their pockets revealed no weapon more formidable than a pocket knife.
In a few words Jack told his friend what had happened and Kernertok in turn told how he was returning from a trip to a town in the northern part of the state and had just happened to glance in at the window in passing.
“It was a mighty lucky thing for me that you did,” Jack declared as he finished.
“What for you tie up young white boy?” the Indian asked Pierre, stepping close to where he was lying.
“We ’fraid he tell police we try burn bunk house, so we tak’ him off. No know what do wid heem,” the man replied sulkily. “We no mean hurt heem.”
“I thought probably that was it,” Jack declared.