"Yes, seh; I know him. I saw him plain as I do now."
I do not know why, but every bit of evidence against the man came instantly thronging back to my mind—the chance remark of Thockmorton on the Warrior about his suspicion of Indian blood; the high cheek bones and thin lips; the boy's earlier description; the manner in which our trail had been so relentlessly followed; the strange emblem found pinned to the blanket. I seemed to grasp the entire truth—the wily, cowardly scheme of treachery he was endeavoring to perpetrate. My blood boiled in my veins, and yet I felt cold as ice, as I swung about, and faced the fellow, my rifle flung forward.
"Kirby, stand up! Drop that rifle—take it, Eloise. Now raise your hands. Tim."
"Whut's up?"
"Is there anything serious going on outside?"
"No; nuthin' much—just pow-wowin'. Yer want me?"
"Search that scoundrel for weapons. Don't ask questions; do what I say."
He made short work of it, using no gentle methods.
"Wal' the gent wasn't exactly harmless," he reported, grinning cheerfully, "considerin' this yere knife an cannon. Now, maybe ye'll tell me whut the hell's up?"
Kirby stood erect, his dark eyes searching our faces, his lips scornful.