Yan stood still.  The desperado strode forward, seized the bow, and gave him two or three blows on the back and legs.

“Now, you young Pup, get me my dinner, and be quick about it, or I’ll break yer useless neck.”

Yan now realized that he had fallen into the power of the worst enemy of the harmless camper, and saw too late the folly of neglecting Raften’s advice to have a big Dog in camp.  He glanced around and would have run, but the tramp was too quick for him and grabbed him by the collar.  “Oh, no you don’t; hold on, sonny.  I’ll fix you so you’ll do as you’re told.”  He cut the bowstring from its place, and violently throwing Yan down, he tied his feet so that they had about eighteen inches’ play.

“Now rush around and get my dinner; I’m hungry.  An’ don’t you spile it in the cooking or I’ll use the gad on you; an’ if you holler or cut that cord I’ll kill ye.  See that?” and he got out an ugly-looking knife.

Tears of fear and pain ran down Yan’s face as he limped about to obey the brute’s orders.

“Here, you move a little faster!” and the tramp turned from poking the fire with the bow to give another sounding blow.  If he had looked down the trail he would have seen a small tow-topped figure that turned and scurried away at the sound.

Yan was trained to bear punishment, but the tyrant seemed careless of even his life.

“Are you going to kill me?” he burst out, after another attack for stumbling in his shackles.

“Don’t know but I will when I’ve got through with ye,” replied the desperado with brutal coolness.  “I’ll take some more o’ that meat—­an’ don’t you let it burn, neither.  Where’s the sugar for the coffee?  I’ll get a bigger club if ye don’t look spry,” and so the tramp was served with his meal.  “Now bring me some tobaccer.”

Yan hobbled into the teepee and reached down Sam’s tobacco bag.

“Here, what’s that box?  Bring that out here,” and the tramp pointed to the box in which they kept some spare clothes.  Yan obeyed in fear and trembling.  “Open it.”

“I can’t.  It’s locked, and Sam has the key.”

“He has, has he?  Well, I have a key that will open it,” and so he smashed the lid with the axe; then he went through the pockets, got Yan’s old silver watch and chain, and in Sam’s trousers pocket he got two dollars.

“Ha!  That’s just what I want, sonny,” and the tramp put them in his own pockets. “’Pears to me the fire needs a little wood,” he remarked, as his eye fell on Yan’s quiverful of arrows, and he gave that a kick that sent many of them into the blaze.

“Now, sonny, don’t look at me quite so hard, like you was taking notes, or I may have to cut your throat and put you in the swamp hole to keep ye from telling tales.”

Yan was truly in terror of his life now.

“Bring me the whetstone,” the tyrant growled, “an’ some more coffee.”  Yan did so.  The tramp began whetting his long knife, and Yan saw two things that stuck in his memory:  first, the knife, which was of hunting pattern, had a brass Deer on the handle; second, the hand that grasped it had only three fingers.