Maracota could make no reply to the question, as the pressure on his throat stopped his breath as well as speech.
The backwoodsman saw by the expression upon the Indian’s face, that his own surmise had been correct.
He was not the victim Maracota would have doomed to death.
It was a mistake, but rather a serious one.
Loosening his hold, he suffered the astonished Maracota to rise to his feet.
“Yes; I can tell you’ve made a random shot at me. Next time, try and see a man’s face ’fore you pulls trigger on him, or it might be awkward. There’s no harm done, only a worse shot nor yours I never saw. I’d eat my rifle, stock, lock and barrel, afore I’d own to sich shooting. Who war it you were arter?”
Having at length recovered breath, the Indian was able to answer.
“I took you for Warren Rody.”
“Much obleeged for the compliment. Do I look such a skunk as that fellow? If I do, put a brace of bullets into me, and we won’t quarrel.”
The warrior grimly smiled.