But, in addition to the stolen piece, he carried the tomahawk and knife
at his girdle, and there could be no question that he was an adept in
their use.

When Jack looked down from his place in the tree top on the countenance
of his captor, he perceived a curious distortion, which was now
explained. At some time in his history the Indian had received a slash
across the face, which clove the bone and cartilage of the nose and laid
one of the cheeks open. The cicatrice, combined with the natural
ugliness of the features, and the greasy ocher and paint, daubed and
smeared over the skin, rendered the countenance of the warrior as
frightful as can be conceived.

But Jack Carleton had met too many hideous Indians to be disturbed by
their appearance. It was the _action_ of this one in which he felt
interest.

It was a noteworthy feature of the young Kentuckian's capture, that he
was angered by the evidence that the Indian had brought no gun with him.
Such a course implied that the youth was held in light regard, and not
deemed the equal of a warrior in a hand-to-hand struggle.

"They think I am nothing but a boy," he thought, "and so they sent a
warrior so horrible of face that they hope he will scare me out of my
wits; at any rate, they don't believe it worth while for him to bring a
gun; may be he'll regret that before he is through."

Having scrutinized the captive from head to foot, the captor seemed to
be satisfied. Without attempting any words, he beckoned as before for
Jack to follow him. The gesture was made at the moment the warrior
turned and began walking over the course parallel to the river and
leading toward its mouth.

The action placed Jack behind his master, instead of in front, and it
could not but suggest several desperate expedients to him, who was
resolved not to allow himself to be taken across the river. He had
witnessed enough from his elevated lookout to convince him that the
stream on his right was his Rubicon; if he once passed _that_, there
would be no return.

CHAPTER XVI.

A STARTLING CONCLUSION.

Jack Carleton stealthily pressed his left hand against his breast; his
knife was where he could whip it out when wanted.

Why couldn't he draw it, and leaping forward, bury it in the side of his
captor before he could save himself?

"It will be a dreadful thing," he reflected, compressing his lips, "but
it is the only chance I have; _I'll try it!_"

He began insinuating his hand