“He ought to have come down some days ago,” said Mr. Wescott, in an uneasy tone. “I am afraid that the good old man has indeed fallen. Be careful what you say, for these scoundrels understand every word you speak.” At this moment the chief approached and caught Mr. Wescott by his wounded arm, causing him to utter a low cry of pain, while the blood gushed from under his hand. “No whispering,” he hissed, dropping all at once his assumed Indian habits. “I’m no baby, Sam Wescott, but a bird of the woods, a Mississippi roarer, and I can lick the universal earth a-flying.” “Dick Garrett!” cried Wescott, in a tone of surprise. “I thought so.” “You know me, do ye?” said Dick, with an air of bravado. “All right, ’square, it’s all the wuss for you, for Dick Garrett don’t let no man live that knows he wears an Injin rig. Git ropes hyar and take a couple of hitches on this chap, some of you fellers.” “What do you intend to do?” cried Wescott, struggling. “Hands off, you scoundrels!” “Tie him tight, boys,” replied Dick Garrett, in fiendish glee. “Teach the cuss to be so sharp, I will, before I git done with him. Now, then, Sam Wescott, if you’ve got any prayers to say, say ’em quick, for overboard you go when we get to that snag in the river.” “You cannot mean it,” said Wescott. “Such a cold blooded and unprovoked murder—” “Oh, give us a rest or I’ll gag you,” replied Dick Garrett. “The matter of a man more or less in the world ain’t going to shake it to its center, you bet, and when I say you’ve got to go under, then you go.” “Have your way, then, murderous wretch,” cried the brave man, drawing himself up proudly. “I will not beg for my life from such as you, and am ready to die, if my time has come, as bravely as another. Do your worst.” Sadie by this time began to comprehend the danger in which her father stood, and would have come to him, but she was forced back by one of the rough men who wore the Indian garb, but who could not conceal a certain flat-boat swagger which betrayed him. “He crows loud, boys, don’t he?” said Garrett; “mighty loud for a bird of his feather that’s only got three minnits to live. Keep the gal away; she ain’t got leave to die yet.” “Let me go to my father,” pleaded Sadie. “Oh, sir, you will not kill him for a single hasty word?” “I rather think I shall,” replied Garrett, as cool and composed as if talking of any ordinary event. “The man’s got to go. I don’t advertise to be a saint, and when a man runs ag’inst me and calls me a murderer, I reckon it’s about time for him to pass in his chips. I’m a peaceable man—I will _have_ peace, or a fight.” This strange man was dreadfully in earnest. Human life was to him a thing of no price—we might lose it to-day or to-morrow, of we might live a hundred years—a small matter, not to be taken into account. He had no objections to killing a man, and if he had stood in his way, in any manner, it became a _duty_ to put him aside.