“Where do you suppose he took her?”
“Artena does not know.”
For a moment the scout was silent.
“He does not mean to stay with Jack any longer, I’m satisfied of this,” he said, then. “I know that Indian—the sharpest of all the Modocs. He sees that Jack’s time is drawing to a close, and I’ll wager my rifle that he’s going back to his old haunts with ’Reesa—back to the Klamaths.”
“Then we must hunt him above ground,” said Evan Harris.
“Yes, and the sooner we get out o’ this the better.”
“We must cross the river, but where?”
“At the Devil’s Bridge,” answered the scout. “You won’t find an Indian within a hundred yards of the spot. Why, several years ago, I couldn’t get Cohoon to put his foot on it, and as we were compelled to cross the stream, he plunged in, and I had to risk my life to save his.”
When Kit spoke the name of the Warm Spring spy, a hand fell softly on his arm; but the owner thereof did not speak until he had finished.
“Speak gently of Cohoon,” said a voice in the darkness. “He is dead.”