Suddenly Henderson turned to her and laid an arm about her little shoulders.
“You saved my life, kid!” he said, softly. “How ever did you know I was down there in that hell?”
“I jest knowed it was you, when I seen Red Pichot an’ Bug Mitchell a-trackin’ some one,” answered the child, still keeping her eyes on the trail, as if it was her part to see that Henderson was not again taken unawares. “I knowed it was you, Mister Henderson, an’ I followed ’em; an’ oh, I seen it all, I seen it all, an’ I most died because I hadn’t no gun. But I’d ’ave killed ’em both, some day, sure, ef––ef they hadn’t went away! But they’ll be back now right quick.”
Henderson bent and kissed her wet black head, saying, “Bless you, kid! You an’ me’ll always be pals, I reckon!”
At the kiss the child’s face flushed, and, for one second forgetting to watch the trail, she lifted glowing eyes to his. But he was already looking away. 189
“Come on,” he muttered. “This ain’t no place for you an’ me yet.”
Making a careful circuit through the thick undergrowth, swiftly but silently as two wildcats, the strange pair gained a covert close beside the trail by which Pichot and Mitchell would return to the rim of the pot. Safely ambuscaded, Henderson laid a hand firmly on the child’s arm, resting it there for two or three seconds, as a sign of silence.
Minute after minute went by in the intense stillness. At last the child, whose ears were even keener than Henderson’s, caught her breath with a little indrawing gasp and looked up at her companion’s face. Henderson understood; and every muscle stiffened. A moment later and he, too, heard the oncoming tread of hurried footsteps. Then Pichot went by at a swinging stride, with Mitchell skulking obediently at his heels.
Henderson half raised his rifle, and his face turned grey and cold like steel. But it was no part of his plan to shoot even Red Pichot in the back. From the manner of the two ruffians it was plain that they had no suspicion of the turn which affairs had taken. To them it was as sure as two and two make four that Henderson was still on his log in the pot, if he had not already gone over into the cauldron. As they reached the rim Henderson stepped out into the trail behind them, his gun balanced ready like a trapshooter’s. 190
As Pichot, on the very brink, looked down into the pot and saw that his victim was no longer there, he turned to Mitchell with a smile of mingled triumph and disappointment.