The clay
floor was wet and slippery; his feet were hardly in motion before
they slipped from under him and he fell headlong.
With loud yells of triumph the band jumped upon him. There was a
convulsive, heaving motion of the struggling mass, one frightful cry
of agony, and then hoarse commands. Three of the braves ran to their
packs, from which they took cords of buckskin. So exceedingly
powerful was the hunter that six Indians were required to hold him
while the others tied his hands and feet. Then, with grunts and
chuckles of satisfaction, they threw him into a corner of the cabin.
Two of the braves had been hurt in the brief struggle, one having a
badly wrenched shoulder and the other a broken arm. So much for the
hunter's power in that single moment of action.
The loft was searched, and found to be empty. Then the excitement
died away, and the braves settled themselves down for the night. The
injured ones bore their hurts with characteristic stoicism; if they
did not sleep, both remained quiet and not a sigh escaped them.
The wind changed during the night, the storm abated, and when
daylight came the sky was cloudless. The first rays of the sun shone
in the open door, lighting up the interior of the cabin.
A sleepy Indian who had acted as guard stretched his limbs and
yawned.
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