He took up his rifle and glided away among the shrubbery like a phantom.
Town. stood alone by the renegade. Neither spoke. Town. was too absorbed in his own reflections to think of aught but the sweet, fair face of Madge Taft. Dick Sherwood began humming a low, wild song, fixing his eyes upon the hut as he did so.
In a moment all was still again but the wind and thunder. Town. noticed that Sherwood still kept his eyes upon the little cone-shaped hut, and so Town. himself glanced that way. He started. A gleam of lightning showed to him a human hand protruding from a small opening in the side of the hut. In that mysterious hand was clutched a small, glittering dagger.
“Heavens! what can that mean?” thought Town., “it was not the hand of either of the girls; it was too large. What if an enemy—Ah, what now?”
It was a hasty movement upon the upper side of the island that interrupted him—a movement that produced a sound resembling the threshing of a heavy body through the undergrowth. This sound was followed by a dull thud, then upon the wings of the gathering storm came a wild yell from the lips of Old Tumult, again followed by a triumphant, mocking laugh. Then all became still again, and while Town. stood trying to gain some solution to the mysterious proceedings, the old scout approached him unseen and touched him upon the shoulder.
Town. started.
“This way, lad,” said the scout.
Town. followed him to the upper margin of the island, when he drew from the forks of a bush and held up before him a human scalp.
“Where did you get that?” asked Town., with a shudder of disgust.
“Thar,” replied Old Tumult, pointing to the ground.