“If Artena is a spy, she shall die,” said Jack. “But Mouseh can not believe all that Baltimore Bob says. Artena has told him much about the blue-coats; he must have more proof of her treason than Bob’s voice. What say the chiefs?”
“I believe Baltimore Bob,” said one. “He must know. We have heard where he has been. Boston Charley votes for death.”
“And Hooker Jim?”
“Death to the traitress!”
Jack turned to the other chief—Scar-faced Charley.
There was a slight gleam of hope in his face. He hoped that the last chief would not pronounce for death.
Mechanically Jack turned and struck the lava wall twice with his hatchet.
The tread of many feet followed, and presently a dozen Indians joined the chiefs.
Artena, pinioned by strong red arms, walked in the van of the party, and near her, with his hands fastened to his side, strode Evan Norris, the young ranger, whose prisoner the redoubtable Jack himself had lately been.
The savage known as Baltimore Bob headed the band, and fastened his eyes upon the Modoc chief as he stepped into the light of the fire.