Instead of pulling the trigger, however, some idea seemed to cross his mind, and pausing, he scanned his adversary.
He saw it was Maracota who had fired at him!
Carrol knew Maracota as a faithful and devoted follower of the late chief, and he felt loth to take his life, although he might easily have done so.
The better thought prevailed.
He felt convinced that the bullet fired by the Indian had been aimed in reality at one for whom Maracota had mistaken him.
Advancing cautiously towards the unconscious warrior, the old backwoodsman crept from tree to tree until he was close upon him.
Not anticipating an attack from the rear, and still fancying he commanded the hiding-place of the white man, Maracota, in spite of his Indian cunning, was completely in the white man’s power.
A loud shout, a quick bound, and Carrol had him in his grasp.
With one hand upon his throat, the hunter had pinned him to the earth.
“Not a word, you darned catamount, or I’ll run my knife into your ribs! So you thought to circumwent me, did yer, with your Injun treachery? What would you say now if I war to raise your har, ’stead of letting you take mine?”