“Kirby, stand up!  Drop that rifle—­take it, Eloise.  Now raise your hands.  Tim.”

“Whut’s up?”

“Is there anything serious going on outside?”

“No; nuthin’ much—­just pow-wowin’.  Yer want me?”

“Search that scoundrel for weapons.  Don’t ask questions; do what I say.”

He made short work of it, using no gentle methods.

“Wal’ the gent wasn’t exactly harmless,” he reported, grinning cheerfully, “considerin’ this yere knife an cannon.  Now, maybe ye’ll tell me whut the hell’s up?”

Kirby stood erect, his dark eyes searching our faces, his lips scornful.

“And perhaps, Mr. Lieutenant Knox,” he added sarcastically.  “You might condescend to explain to me also the purpose of this outrage.”

“With pleasure,” but without lowering my rifle.  “This boy here belonged to the company of soldiers massacred yesterday morning.  You know where I mean.  He was the only one to escape alive, and he saw you there among the savages—­free, and one of them.”

“He tells you that?  And you accept the word of that half-wit?”

“He described your appearance to us exactly twenty-four hours ago.  I never thought of you at the time, although the description was accurate enough, because it seemed so impossible for you to have been there.  But that isn’t all, Kirby.  What has become of the emblem pin you wore in your tie?  It is gone, I see.”

His hand went up involuntarily.  It is possible he had never missed it before, for a look of indecision came into the man’s face—­the first symptom of weakness I had ever detected there.

“It must have been lost—­mislaid—­”

“It was; and I chance to be able to tell you where—­in this very room.  Here is your pin, you incarnate devil.  I found it caught in those blankets yonder.  This is not your first visit to this cabin; you were here with Indian murderers.”

“It’s a damned lie—­”

But Kennedy had him, locked in a vise-like grip.  It was well he had, for the fellow had burst into a frantic rage, yet was bound so utterly helpless as to appear almost pitiful.  The knowledge of what he had planned, of his despicable treachery, left us merciless.  In spite of his struggles we bore him to the floor, and pinned him there, cursing and snapping like a wild beast.

“Tear up one of those blankets,” I called back over my shoulder to Hall.  “Yes, into strips, of course; now bring them here.  Tim, you tie the fellow—­yes, do a good job; I’ll hold him.  Lie still, Kirby, or I shall have to give you the butt of this gun in the face.”

He made one last effort to break free, and, as my hand attempted to close on his throat, the clutching fingers caught the band of his shirt, and ripped it wide open.  There, directly before me, a scar across his hairy, exposed chest, was a broad, black mark, a tribal totem.  I stared down at it, recognizing its significance.