The Oath of Secrecy.
While the black buzzards are quarrelling over the carcase, not far off there is another carcase stretched upon the sward, also of a bear.
But the grouping around it is different; six hunters on horseback and double the number of dogs.
They are the boy hunters late bivouacking in the glade, and the bear is the same that had strayed unwittingly into their camp.
The animal has just succumbed under the trenchant teeth of their dogs, and a bullet or two from their rifles. Nor have the hounds come off unscathed. Two or three of them, the young and rash, lie dead beside the quarry they assisted in dragging down.
The hunters have just ridden up and halted over the black, bleeding mass. The chase, short and hurried, is at an end, and now for the first time since leaving the glade do they seem to have stayed for reflection. That which strikes them is, or should be, fearful.
“My God!” cries young Randall, “the Indian! We’ve left him hanging.”
“We have, by the Lord!” seconds Spence, all six turning pale, and exchanging glances of consternation.
“If he have let go his hold—”
“If! He must have let go; and long before this. It’s full twenty minutes since we left the glade. It isn’t possible for him to have hung on so long—not possible.”