He was hatless.
Kazan slunk deeper in his shadow at the low horrible laugh that fell from his lips--for the man still held the club.

In a moment he dropped that, and approached the tent.

He drew back the flap and peered in.
Thorpe's wife was sleeping, and as quietly as a cat he entered and hung the lantern on a nail in the tent-pole.

His movement did not awaken her, and for a few moments he stood there, staring--staring.
Outside, crouching in the deep shadow, Kazan tried to fathom the meaning of these strange things that were happening.

Why had his master and McCready gone out into the forest?
Why had not his master returned?
It was his master, and not McCready, who belonged in that tent.