Solomon’s face had darkened with anger.  There were deep furrows across his brow.

Standing before Jack about three feet away, he drew out his ram rod and tossed it to the young man, who caught it a little above the middle.  Jack knew the meaning of this.  They were to put their hands upon the ram rod, one above the other.  The last hand it would hold was to do the killing.  It was Solomon’s.

“Thank God!” he whispered, as his face brightened.

He seemed to be taking careful aim with his right eye.

“It’s my job,” said he.  “I wouldn’t ‘a’ let ye do it if ye’d drawed the chanst.  It’s my job—­proper.  They ain’t an hour ahead.  Mebbe—­it’s jest possible—­he may go to sleep to-night ‘fore I do, an’ I wouldn’t be supprised.  They’ll build their fire at the Caverns on Rock Crick an’ roast a captive.  We’ll cross the bush an’ come up on t’ other side an’ see what’s goin’ on.”

They crossed a high ridge, with Solomon tossing his feet in that long, loose stride of his, and went down the slope into a broad valley.  The sun sank low and the immeasurable green roofed house of the wild was dim and dusk when the old scout halted.  Ahead in the distance they had heard voices and the neighing of a horse.

“My son,” said Solomon as he pointed with his finger, “do you see the brow o’ the hill yonder whar the black thickets be?”

Jack nodded.

“If ye hear to me yell stay this side.  This ‘ere business is kind o’ neevarious.  I’m a-goin’ clus up.  If I come back ye’ll hear the call o’ the bush owl.  If I don’t come ‘fore mornin’ you p’int fer hum an’ the good God go with ye.”

“I shall go as far as you go,” Jack answered.

Solomon spoke sternly.  The genial tone of good comradeship, had left him.

“Ye kin go, but ye ain’t obleeged,” said he.  “Bear in mind, boy.  To-night I’m the Cap’n.  Do as I tell ye—­exact.”

He took the lightning hurlers out of the packs and unwrapped them and tried the springs above the hammers.  Earlier in the day he had looked to the priming.  Solomon gave one to Jack and put the other two in his pockets.  Each examined his pistols and adjusted them in his belt.  They started for the low lying ridge above the little valley of Rock Creek.  It was now quite dark and looking down through the thickets of hemlock they could see the firelight of the Indians and hear the wash of the creek water.  Suddenly a wild whooping among the red men, savage as the howl of wolves on the trail of a wounded bison, ran beyond them, far out into the forest, and sent its echoes traveling from hilltop to mountain side.  Then came a sound which no man may hear without getting, as Solomon was wont to say, “a scar on his soul which he will carry beyond the last cape.”  It was the death cry of a captive.  Solomon had heard it before.  He knew what it meant.  The fire was taking hold and the smoke had begun to smother him.  Those cries were like the stabbing of a knife and the recollection of them like blood-stains.