He was a very tall and very massive man, of very grotesque appearance; and when the reader is told that it was Leander Maybob, the giant hunter, and no one else, a personal description is unnecessary. The muzzle of his rifle pointed steadily at the Indian’s head, and he said in a rough tone of command that the chief was afraid to disobey, and, at the same time fearful to obey:
“Come down!”
Ku-nan-gu-no-nah realized that the time occupied in the passage of a bullet from the big hunter’s unerring rifle to his brain would be very short.
He attempted to hitch backward along the limb and came near losing his hold and shooting down into the roaring water below.
He looked at the giant in a half despairful way, which he only noticed by saying:
“Come down, or I’ll shoot!”
Again he essayed to move himself backward along the limb. It was a perilous undertaking, but death stared him grimly in the face, let him look whichever way he would.
Once more. This time he swayed so far to one side that it was with the greatest difficulty that he regained his equipoise on top of the branch.
Now he turned his gaze for an instant again to the man on the bank who held his rifle in his hands—the man whose father and mother he had murdered, though he knew it not.
If he had known the terrible oath of vengeance that the giant hunter had registered against him, he would have chosen to strangle in the stream underneath rather than to fall into his hands.