For all his stoicism, the old hunter sighed as he turned from the blackened spot which marked the site of his former dwelling.
He paused at the bend of the road, where Crookleg had first met Nelatu, to gaze again at his ruined home. Not only paused, but sat down upon the self-same rail that the negro had perched upon, and from gazing upon it, fell to reflecting.
So absorbed was he in his contemplation, that contrary to his usual custom, he took no note of the time, nor once removed his eyes from the subject of his thoughts.
He did not perceive the approach of a danger.
It came in the form of four individuals who had silently and stealthily crept close to the spot where he was sitting. Before he knew of their proximity, he was their prisoner.
“Red-skins!” he exclaimed, struggling to free himself.
His captors smiled grimly at his vain efforts.
“By the eternal! I’m fixed this time! Darn my stupid carcase for not havin’ eyes set in the back o’ my head. Wal, you may grin, old copper-skins, it’s your turn now—maybe, it’ll be mine next. What are you a-doin’ now?”
Without deigning a reply the Indians bound his arms securely behind him.
That done they made signs to him to follow them.