It was some hours after the capture of the scout, and the warriors had returned from the unavailing pursuit of Charles Markley. Five had fallen during the day, nearly a third of their number. Although two daring foes were in their power, one at least still wandered through the forest. Adverse fate seemed upon them, and they were moody and silent. The villagers were still astir, as the exciting events precluded the possibility of sleep, even from Indian braves. They feared some dire retribution breaking upon them, and mourning and lamentations were rife. A solitary figure approached the village, casting anxious and suspicious glances about him. The disturbed manner of the inhabitants, who seemed scarcely to notice his presence, filled him with vague wonder and alarm. As he observed the unusual disorder, the renegade, for it was no other, gave vent to his feelings in sundry mutterings and ejaculations. “I wonder what in the name o’ Satan has been goin’ on here to-night? Needn’t tell Bill Ashbey that all’s right and tight, not by any means. Thank my good fortin’ I’m come home, and can soon find out what all this rumpus is about.” He sprung up to the door of his cabin, and raised the wooden latch, but it was barred upon the inside. Giving a peculiar whistle, it was opened, and the savage stood aside with a grunt of welcome for his superior to enter. The renegade strode into the room, and looked about with a searching gaze. Two other savages were within, who had started to their feet at his approach. Giving them a simple stare of recognition, he turned to the one who had admitted him. “Wal,” he growled, “you’ve got home, I see. What luck? Is the gal safe?” The Indian known as Dark Cloud paused a moment, then slowly replied: “White Bird sleep there,” indicating the apartment beyond. “Pale-face no cross trail of red-man. Pale brave come after; try to steal White Bird from her chief.” “So that’s it, is it?” He spoke carelessly, as if to inspire himself with courage. “Some fool’s come to steal away the gal! But d’ye know these pale-faces? Have you ever seen them before?” “Pale-Face Long-Leg kill _one_ brave,” the Indian returned, holding up one finger by way of emphasis. “Leg no long enough to run ’way! Me throw tomahawk—knock him down—” A movement upon the part of the renegade broke off the communication. “So Davy Barring has got into my hands again!” hissed the renegade. “We’ll see if he’ll git away slick as he did afore. I’ll have Sall up an’ git my supper. While that’s cookin’ I’ll over and look at the birds.” Unbarring the door, the three passed quietly in. The scout rose upon their entrance. For a few momenta those two men, so opposite in character and disposition, stood regarding each other in silence. “Well, old Davy, I’m glad to see you again,” Ashbey exclaimed.