He sat on a log, ate at dinner-time and drank his last drop of water.

The heat of June was growing intense.

Even on the west of the swamp, where one had full benefit of the breeze from the upland, it was beginning to be unpleasant in the middle of the day.
He brushed the crumbs from his knees and sat resting awhile and watching the sky to see if his big chicken were hanging up there.

But he came to the earth abruptly, for there were steps coming down the trail that were neither McLean's nor Duncan's--and there never had been others.
Freckles' heart leaped hotly.

He ran a quick hand over his belt to feel if his revolver and hatchet were there, caught up his cudgel and laid it across his knees--then sat quietly, waiting.