“Curse the arrow!” grated the Warm Spring chief, turning chagrined from his ill success. “Indeed it baffled a choice shot of mine. But I’ll catch the Klamath ambassadors yet. If I can prevent it, they shall never revive Jack’s hopes by promises of succor. I’m on the trail of Klamath beasts now; but I may fail. I don’t know. The best of hunters miss sometimes.”
A moment later the cavern was tenantless. Donald McKay was seeking the scalps of his two trusty scouts, for his sharp eyes had failed to penetrate their disguise.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PISTOL AND THE KNIFE.
When Baltimore Bob discovered that Mouseh, or Captain Jack, was ready for the conflict to which he had been dared, a nervous twitching came to his lips, and he exhibited signs of shirking the duel.
The Modoc chieftain noticed these ill-concealed symptoms of cowardice, and hastily glanced at his chiefs, with a faint smile, for be it known that, since the day when the notorious Ben Wright massacred his forefathers, twenty years prior to the date of our romance, a laugh had never rippled over his lips.
“Mouseh,” said Bob, “tell me why you threw my foe a pistol. He gave me a bullet once. I carry it yet among my ribs, and I owe him an ounce or so of lead.”
The big, insulting voice had dwindled into one of milder tone. Baltimore, when confronted by such a man as Captain Jack—whose course in this affair was just—was a coward, as all bullies are.
“I will not see a white man shot down like a dog,” was the reply. “He is your prisoner. I gave him to you in the other cave, because you have spied well for me, and I knew not how else to reward you than by giving you the life of the man you hate. But he shall not die like the helpless cur. I threw him the pistol he holds that he might have an equal chance with you.”
The ochered renegade was silent for a minute.