Captain Jack had not spoken once during the melee, nor did he speak now.
He seemed at a loss how to dispose of his captive.
He could drive the knife to his heart, or hurl him over the cordon of rock that surrounded the mouth of the corridor, and the soldiers would pick him up some time, a shapeless mass of humanity!
A footstep attracted the Indian. Was Cohoon returning?
Jack thought he was; so, raising the young white scout above his head, he stepped upon a rock that elevated him several feet, and bent his body for the death-fling.
But at that moment the figure which had occasioned the noise sprung forward, and caught the chief’s arm.
With a low cry of astonishment the Modoc left the rock, and lowered the scout.
“Spare him for me, Mouseh,” said the new-comer, who was clad in the rough garments of the frontiersman. “I’ve got a score to settle with this chap. Look here, Evan Harris, do you know me?”
As he put the question, he whirled Jack’s captive about, and leaned forward until their faces almost touched.
The scout gazed into the triumphant eyes for a moment, and then started back.