The sullen silence of the Indian brought back the misgivings of the captive.
He could not doubt that he had been abducted with a view of being ransomed, but it was impossible to credit Motoza with the whole scheme.
He must have allies, and, knowing nothing of Bill Tozer, Fred suspected that a half-dozen vagrant Indians, more or less, were engaged in it, though it seemed singular that no one else had shown himself thus far.
Although the prisoner had been in better spirits than would be suspected, his situation was uncomfortable and he lost hope with the passage of the hours.

Motoza refused to hold any further conversation, and was evidently brooding over something of an unpleasant nature.

By and by he lit his pipe and silently puffed.

He was sitting on the flinty floor, with his back against the side of the cavern and his legs thrust out in front of him.
Now and then, when he drew a little harder on the pipe, the glow in the bowl revealed the tip of his nose, a part of the painted forehead, and the glittering black eyes.

It was a gruesome picture, for, even when he was invisible, it seemed to Fred he could see the gleam of those eyes fixed upon him.
"Now, I know he hates me beyond expression," mused the youth, "and nothing would delight him more than to torture me to death.