Crookleg shook his head.
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know, Massa Injun; don’t know nuffin ’bout him.”
“Liar!”
“By him tressed life, massa, dis chile don’t know.”
“Answer me—where is Warren Rody? I give you one chance for your wretched life. Tell me, where is Warren Rody?”
The raising of a tomahawk above the negro’s head convinced him that death would be the sure reward of untruth.
“Don’t, massa, don’t kill de ole nigger. He’ll tell you all he knows. Oh, don’t kill me!”
“Speak.”
“He war here, but he am gone.”