Town. looked and saw the lifeless body of an Indian lying at his feet.
“I found the red hound skulking on this very island,” said Old Tumult.
“And did you slay him?”
“Ya-as. It war a neat job, too; the demon didn’t git a chance to screech afore I closed his weazen, and slid his hair off. It looks bloody and wicked to you, lad, but sich is the game. It don’t take long to git used to it, either.”
At this juncture drops of rain began to fall.
“Go to the shanty, lad, or ye’ll git wet,” said Old Tumult.
“I am no better than you, Tumult; if it will not hurt you, it will not hurt me.”
“Yer plucky, lad; but let us not tarry here too long. We must keep an eye on Sherwood. I brought you here to show you that danger lurked about.”
This remark of the old scout reminded Town. of the hand he had seen thrust from a crack in the hut, and he at once narrated it to him.
“Smoke o’ torture!” exclaimed the scout, turning toward the hut; “come, lad, come.”