Could he have had his way, he would have strangled the life out of him as he lay thus unconscious, but he was carrying him for Lone Wolf, the chief, and he dare not disobey him.
It is not often that the sleeper rests his head upon the bosom of his enemy, yet such was the case in the present instance.

The swaying, rocking motion of the bed of Fred Munson not only lulled him to sleep, but retained him in as sweet and dreamless slumber as though he were resting upon his bed at home, where no thought of the treacherous Indian ever entered his head.
The red-skin sat his steed like a statue.

Lone Wolf had entrusted the young captive to his charge, and he would hold him responsible for his safe deliverance, that was all.

He might have slept for twenty-four hours, using his scarred and evil chest as a pillow, without protest from him.
When at last Fred opened his eyes, it was several minutes before he recalled his situation.

It was just beginning to grow light, and when he saw the figures of horses with their riders he remembered the scene of the night before.