Ever and anon shouts of Indian triumph entered the cave, and caused Mouseh’s companions to exchange pleasing glances; but the Modoc tiger did not deign a smile; he stood erect with brows knit, and lips glued together, as it were, by the icy glue of death.
All at once he became a living thing, for he had grown into a statue, as a young savage, clad in the full uniform of a United States artillery-man, entered the cave.
He seemed to be the person for whose arrival Jack had been watching.
“What news, Tom?” asked the chief starting forward, and as the sound of his voice, melodious for a man of his years, fell upon the ears of his co-rebels, there was a movement about the fire, and all started to their feet.
“McKay and his red foxes are near,” said the young Indian. “They crawl among the rocks like lizards, and we can not hear them.”
“Can you not see them?”
“Now and then,” answered Shack Nasty Tom. “Tom saw one; he waited and struck; see!”
As he spoke he drew a scalp from his bosom, and flung it across the Modoc’s arm.
The other chiefs crowded about the trophy.
“’Tis not McKay,” said Captain Jack, in a disappointed tone, “but one of his accursed rangers is scalpless, thanks to Tom. Chiefs, here is a right arm that is dear to Mouseh,” and turning abruptly to the red faces that appeared at his right, the Modoc terror stretched forth his muscled arm.