With cautious steps he followed the footprints now seen in the soft mud of the bank.
They led to a sheltered spot, upon which a rude hut had been erected.
The sound of a man’s voice arrested his steps.
“He, he! I ’clare it makes dis chile larf, to t’ink about de trubble dat’s brewing for dem. De long time am comin’ round at last. I’se bin a waitin’ for it, but it am comin’ now.”
It was Crookleg who spoke; but for the time he said no more.
A stunning blow from Nelatu’s clubbed rifle—which would have crushed any skull but that of a negro—felled him senseless to the ground.
On recovering consciousness, he found himself bound in a most artistic manner by a thong of deer-skin, which Nelatu had found near the hut.
“Hush!” said the Indian, in a half-whisper; “not a word, except to answer my questions. Don’t move, dog, or I’ll dash out your brains!”
The negro trembled in every limb.
“Is Warren Rody inside that hut?”