The mission of the three men was dangerous in every sense of the term, and their movements told that they knew this.
Ever and anon they were compelled to pause and permit Indians to flit by like dark-robed specters; but they did not put forth a hand to take a life, for the death-cry might prove the harbinger of their own doom.
The scouts were preparing for the coming day. Captain Jack knew that the great guns of his white adversaries would open upon him with the rising of the sun, and his braves were hastening to stations already selected by his military eye.
The rescuers spoke not as they glided along, and at last they gained the elevation from whose summit McKay and Artena had looked into Bloody Cave.
“I thought we’d take a peep into the lion’s lair, first,” whispered Donald to Kit, who crept at his side, young Harris having been left at the river to watch for foes. “I think we’ll hardly—ha! the lion is at home.”
The exclamation was called forth by the presence of Jack, alone in the cave.
He stood erect with arms folded upon his breast, and eyes fastened on the gallows which lately in the presence of his nation, he had traced on the wall.
“Heavens! what a fine chance to end the Modoc war,” said Kit South, and his hand involuntarily crept to his revolver. “But it won’t do to drop him.”
“No,” said McKay regretfully. “We must let the greatest devil in these parts go scot free. But if we catch him alone in one of these dark halls we’ll end his days.”
“That we will; but look, Mack, he’s going to leave us. No, he sees some one—there!”