“Now look here,” said Sam Thatcher, one of the trio, who had been warned by keen Kit South. “You’re not going alone. I’m going to crawl for’ard with you, and by hokey! if I see a suspicious move on your part, I’ll send a ray of starlight through your head.”
The Indian did not reply, and submitted to the border-man’s company, with ill-humor plainly visible in his dark eyes.
“Now, stay hyar, boys, an’ keep eyes an’ ears open,” said Thatcher, and as the guide, impatient to be off, moved slowly on, he added. “This chap’s up to something—something devilish; I feel it away down in my boots.”
Then the twain pushed forward together, and soon disappeared.
Ever and anon Harry would pause and listen intently, but not a sound reached his ears. The stillness of the tomb brooded over the fortresses of the renowned Modocs, and the stars shed a strange light upon the death-traps of lava.
Sam Thatcher kept his eyes fastened upon his guide. He knew that Kit South never suspicioned any one without cause, and when he told him to watch Harry, he knew that treachery was in the air.
Suddenly the Modoc paused and turned his head.
“Hunter!” he whispered, and with cocked revolver, Thatcher moved to his side.
“Well—heavens!”
The exclamation was not spoken in a loud voice; the hand of the Indian prevented this, for it suddenly closed over the Californian’s mouth, and he fell to the earth with the words dying on his lips.