Duke snarled viciously, and ran around the two combatants, seeking an opportunity to leap at Bradford’s throat. Both men were breathing heavily. The terrific exercise and excessive strain were telling upon them. But the younger man’s wind was the better—was in his favor. Besides, each moment he was growing cooler, more determined, while his antagonist, seeing defeat staring him in the face, was losing his presence of mind. Of a sudden, Douglas swung Bradford clear of the ground, and with stunning force dashed him against the log wall. Scar Face’s hold relaxed, and he dropped to the floor, senseless. In a moment the dog was upon the helpless man, and would have buried his fangs in the throbbing throat, had not Ross panted: “Down, Duke; out of the way!” The hound sullenly obeyed, growling fiercely. Douglas leaned against the wall and breathed hard for some seconds. Then he stooped and carefully examined his fallen foe. “He’s only stunned; thank God I didn’t have to kill him!” he ejaculated. Then, taking a bundle of thongs from a peg upon the wall, he proceeded to bind the prostrate man, hand and foot. When he had finished, he secured the other’s gun, ammunition, and knife, and calling to the dog left the hut, noiselessly closing the door behind him. By this time it was quite dark. Along the creek bank, the camp-fires twinkled like watchful eyes. With long, sturdy strides, Douglas set off toward the ravine up the stream. The smell of the heavy fog was in his nostrils; the booming roar of the turbulent creek in his ears. He met or saw no one. He left the camp behind, and neared the spot where he expected to meet his friends. Suddenly he stopped and whistled softly. No reply. He drew nearer to the ravine, and again he whistled. Still no reply. The bloodhound whined and impatiently scratched the soft, wet earth. “Find them, Duke,” Ross commanded. The dog ran forward and disappeared in the bushes. Douglas awaited the outcome of his experiment. Presently he heard an eerie-like whisper: “Come right straight ahead, Ross Douglas. Crawl into the bushes, an’ be mighty still while you’re doin’ it.” It was Farley’s voice. Douglas obeyed the words. Dropping upon hands and knees, he wormed his way through the thick copse of wet bushes, for some yards. Suddenly a hand was clapped upon his shoulder, and these whispered words fell upon his ear: “Drop down an’ keep still. The Injins is all ’round us. They’ve got onto our game, some way, an’ have been huntin’ fer our hidin’-place ever sence the middle o’ the afternoon. Me an’ Bright Wing’s laid here fer twelve mortal hours, without a bite to eat. How the redskins got onto our scheme is more’n I can tell; but they’ve done it. Have you got a gun with you, Ross?” “Yes,” was the cautious reply.