But this he could not do, for his arms were not free, and so he lay through the night and the day that followed.
The buzzards saw him and descended until they perceived that life was not extinct. Then they would fly away, wait awhile, and return.
Terrible was that day, and the trader hailed the approach of night. He began to hope now—to hope against hope, because he had not perished during the day; but when the stillness of death settled over the wood, he thought he would cease to endure the suspense, and yield up the ghost.
It might have been midnight—he thought it was—when he became aware that something was climbing the tree.
Now, he thought, the death for which he had ofttimes prayed during the last twenty-four hours was near, and the ring—he did not want to think about the bauble, which seemed to be the death of every person into whose hands it fell.
At first he thought the climber a bear; but he soon discovered that it was a human being.
How eagerly he bent forward to catch a glimpse of the intruder, in the beautiful moonlight that streamed through the sparse branches overhead.
At length he remarked the outlines of his visitor—an Indian, probably one of the band which had placed him in the tree; but what had brought the savage back to his victim?
The new-comer drew himself up on a limb just below the trader, and then started back with an ejaculation of horror.
Doc Cromer recognized the tone.