With manifest reluctance the young half-breed promised.
“Sech promises won’t do Doc Cromer,” said the trader. “I want to hear you swear it, and see the hand come off now.”
“Trader not dead yet,” said the horror-stricken half-breed.
“No difference. Take that hand off at the wrist, and swear that you will give it, with the ring, to Silver Rifle. Do this, Ahdeek, or by heaven! I’ll come back from Manitou land, and haunt you till you die.”
Thus terribly threatened, the superstitions Ahdeek drew his knife, and amputated the hand of the trader, who watched the proceeding with a grim, triumphant smile.
“Now I know you’ll do the balance, boy,” he said. “’Tis lucky that the red villains didn’t see the ring. Now, Ahdeek, tell me something before I die. Tell me whose death you’ve been avenging.”
The half-breed hesitated.
The threat of haunting came again.
“The old trader in Watchemenetoc glen.”
“Why, he died three years ago.”