He knew very well what made it--a
rattlesnake, a thing that he loathed and feared. He certainly did not want
such a deadly reptile sliding through the grass on his feet, and, clubbing
his musket, he walked forward, looking intently for the venomous thing. He
did not see it at first and all his faculties became absorbed in the
search. Holding the clubbed musket ready for an instant blow he peered
into the grass and short bushes. He was a Spaniard not without courage,
but he was oppressed by the night, the wilderness, the huge river flowing
by, and his feeling that he was far, very far, from Spain. Under the
circumstances, the poisonous hiss inspired him with an intense dread and
he was eager to slay. He leaned a little farther, swinging the musket butt
back and forth, ready for a quick blow when he should see the target.
He did not hear a light step behind him, but he did feel a powerful arm
grasp him around the waist, pinning his own arms to his side, while a hand
was clasped over his mouth, checking the ready cry that could not pass his
lips. Then before his starting eyes a figure rose out of the bushes whence
the hiss had come. It was not that of a rattlesnake, but that of a man, a
tall man with powerful shoulders, blue eyes, and yellow hair, undoubtedly
one of the ferocious Americans.
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