For many minutes after Donald McKay’s departure in search of the boat, which was intended to convey her from Jack’s stronghold, Artena kept her eye fixed upon the sleeping spies and their surroundings. She felt suspicious of Baltimore Bob, indeed, she had reached the conclusion that he had recognized the two men, despite their paint and Klamath garments, and she looked for some coming treachery on his part.
Therefore, so intent upon these thoughts was the Indian’s mind, that the footsteps that loosened a pebble and caused it to roll into the black water, did not disturb her in the least. True, the noise was scarcely distinguishable above the swash of the waves; but it was big with events.
A dark figure wearing a cavalry jacket and Indian leggings was crawling upon the watcher with the movements of the panther, and the look that shot from the dark eyes was indicative of the fiercest triumph and revenge, strangely commingled.
Once or twice the Indian—for an Indian the girls’ foe undoubtedly was—paused and listened, as if he knew that Donald McKay was not far off; but he never took his eyes from his prey.
Suddenly crouching very near the ground, imitating the movements of the panther in every particular, he sprung upon the watcher, who was secured before she could comprehend her situation.
One of the scarlet hands prevented her from crying aloud, and down the bank with his captive the savage hurried.
He knew his path in the gloom, and avoided the numerous crags that projected riverward as dexterously as though he could see like the owl. By and by he took his hand from Artena’s mouth, cautioning her at the same time not to utter a word, and at length executed a halt, in the midst of Stygian darkness.
He had bound the nether limbs of the Squaw Spy in the light of the fire beside which the spies slept, and he placed her on the ground, while he turned his attention to the kindling of a fire.
In this he succeeded, and the blaze told Artena that her captor was a gigantic young savage, named Hunter Phil.
She had known him for years; in truth, from girlhood—known him as a vindictive lover, who had persecuted her with his attentions without a moment’s cessation, when she was in his presence. But she had not, until that hour of capture, encountered him for some time, and had begun to hope that some Union bullet had terminated his existence.