“White man put down his guns on ground!” said the same guttural voice.
Cameron hesitated.
“Indian speak no more,” said the voice in a deep growl.
Cameron put his guns down.
“Stand up!” said the voice.
Cameron obeyed. Out from behind the Indian with the leveled rifle glided another Indian form. It was Copperhead. Two more Indians appeared with him. All thought of resistance passed from Cameron's mind. It would mean instant death, and, what to Cameron was worse than death, the certain failure of his plans. While he lived he still had hope. Besides, there would be the Police next day.
With savage, cruel haste Copperhead bound his hands behind his back and as a further precaution threw a cord about his neck.
“Come!” he said, giving the cord a quick jerk.
“Copperhead,” said Cameron through his clenched teeth, “you will one day wish you had never done this thing.”
“No speak!” said Copperhead gruffly, jerking the cord so heavily as almost to throw Cameron off his feet.