Millicent uttered a scream which rung through the hills, for she saw that the man was doomed. The monster had got his death-wound, but still the strength he possessed was too much for Jules Damand, even though fighting with the energy of despair. He saw the heads of Bentley and Jan appear above the ledge, and knew that they would be too late, for the monster had forced him back to the extreme edge of the chasm, two hundred feet above the torrent below.
As the feet of Bentley reached the rock he caught a glimpse of the agonized face of Damand, whose paleness was terrible. He gasped for breath and made one struggle. It was his last; for the next moment, with a demoniac laugh, the huge body of the Mountain Devil shot out into the air, bearing in its arms the form of Damand. Millicent saw them strike the water, and ran to the spot. A crimson stain told where they had gone down, and a white hand and arm could be seen struggling faintly in the flood. She seized it, and with a strength which was unnatural dragged Jules Damand out of the water. He had only time to gasp out a prayer for forgiveness, and die.
They buried him that day under the shadow of the ledge. The body of the Mountain Devil was also raised, and they laid it on the shore. Then they saw that it was in the form of a man of gigantic size, whose uncouth aspect might have been gained by companionship with beasts. They buried him too, and waited for Ben.
He came back next day, triumphant, but would tell them nothing. “Come along,” he said, and they followed with implicit faith up the ledge. The day was nearly spent when they reached their old camp, but Ben caught the horses and made his companions mount. Jules had left his horse, which had found its way back to the camp. Bentley took it. Ben gave up his own good beast to Millicent, and walked by its side. They reached the mouth of the pass, and Ben called them to a halt, and pointed out upon the prairie. There they saw the band of Whirling Breeze encamped, apparently in the greatest security.
“Load yer weepons, boys,” said Ben. “Leave the gal hyar. I’m goin’ to fire my rifle. When I do, watch the spur of the mountain yonder, an’ then foller me.”
They obeyed him. Ben raised his rifle and fired in the air. Obedient to the signal, two hundred warriors, armed to the teeth, emerged from their covert and charged the astonished Blackfeet. Ben sprung into his saddle and rode forward to aid his friends. He came too late. The band of Whirling Breeze was scattered, and he only escaped by the speed of his horse. Ben arrived in time to sequestrate two fine mustangs, and compliment the Crow chief upon the neatness and dispatch of the action.
The party proposed to return to the forts. The chief and fifty chosen warriors rode with them. Among the prisoners Ben found the son of Whirling Breeze, and asked the chief for him. The request was granted, and the young warrior was set at liberty and returned to his friends.
“Chief,” said Ben, when he had heard the story of the death of the Mountain Devil, “do ye know what that was?”
“Half-breed,” said the chief. “Mad. Lived in the Black Hills many years. Glad he dead. Kill many warriors.”
“It was a madman, then,” said Bentley. “I thought so.”