Like a cat Hamlin crept up slowly toward him, poised for a spring.
Some sense of the wild must have stirred the savage into semi-consciousness.

Suddenly he sat up, gripping the gun in his hands.
Yet even as his opening eyes saw dimly the Sergeant's menacing shadow, before he could scream his alarm, or spring upright, the revolver butt struck with dull thud, and he went tumbling backward into the ditch, his cry of alarm ending in a hoarse croak.

From somewhere, out of the dense darkness in front a voice called, sharp and guttural, as if its owner had been startled by the mysterious sound of the blow.

It was the language of the Arapahoes, and out of his vague memory of the tongue, spurred to recollection by the swift emergency, Hamlin growled a hoarse answer, hanging breathlessly above the motionless body until the "ugh!" of the fellow's response proved him without suspicion.

He waited, counting the seconds, every muscle strained with expectancy, listening.