He felt convinced that the bullet fired by the Indian had been aimed in reality at one for whom Maracota had mistaken him. Advancing cautiously towards the unconscious warrior, the old backwoodsman crept from tree to tree until he was close upon him. Not anticipating an attack from the rear, and still fancying he commanded the hiding-place of the white man, Maracota, in spite of his Indian cunning, was completely in the white man's power. A loud shout, a quick bound, and Carrol had him in his grasp. With one hand upon his throat, the hunter had pinned him to the earth. "Not a word, you darned catamount, or I'll run my knife into your ribs! So you thought to circumwent me, did yer, with your Injun treachery? What would you say now if I war to raise your har, 'stead of letting you take mine?" Maracota could make no reply to the question, as the pressure on his throat stopped his breath as well as speech. The backwoodsman saw by the expression upon the Indian's face, that his own surmise had been correct. He was not the victim Maracota would have doomed to death. It was a mistake, but rather a serious one. Loosening his hold, he suffered the astonished Maracota to rise to his feet. "Yes; I can tell you've made a random shot at me. Next time, try and see a man's face 'fore you pulls trigger on him, or it might be awkward. There's no harm done, only a worse shot nor yours I never saw. I'd eat my rifle, stock, lock and barrel, afore I'd own to sich shooting. Who war it you were arter?" Having at length recovered breath, the Indian was able to answer. "I took you for Warren Rody." "Much obleeged for the compliment. Do I look such a skunk as that fellow? If I do, put a brace of bullets into me, and we won't quarrel." The warrior grimly smiled. "Maracota has sworn to avenge Oluski's death. Warren Rody must die!" "Wal, let him die. I shan't stop you from riddin' the world of such as he. What made you follow my trail?" "It was no trail I followed. I have been seeking one from the north; yours came from the east." "Right you air; that's whar I hail from last." "Have you seen anything of him, or Sansuta?" "Hark hyar, Injun. Altho' I might draw blood in the scoundrel if I saw him, I ain't a _man-hunter_, and that's why I haint been a follerin' any trail of his'n." Maracota's eager look gave place to one of despondency, as he muttered,-- "Not found yet! Where can they be?" "Ah, whar? It ain't Warren as has hid whar he can't be found. Some knowin' hand has put him up to it." "Yes, Maracota thinks so. It must be the negro Crookleg." "Crookleg! Is that all-fired nigger varmint mixed up with him? That makes a brace of the durndest hounds that ever run together. Who told you that Crookleg helped young Rody?" "The chief thinks so."