Leona clung tighter to her lover’s breast.
“Oh, they will kill you,” cried the poor girl, more eager for her lover’s safety than for her own.
“We must all die some time, Leona,” said Dave, sadly, imprinting a farewell kiss upon her lips, now colorless with dread.
Again the yells echoed around the lodge and footsteps approached the door.
“They’re comin’, sart’in,” said the “Crow-Killer,” coolly.
Then the skin that served as a door was torn away, and the tall form of the “White Vulture” stalked into the lodge, followed by the Crow braves.
As the hunter had thought, the “White Vulture” had contrived to slip the gag from his mouth, and it was his war-whoop summoning the Crows to his assistance that had first startled the guides.
The “White Vulture” surveyed the scene before him for a few moments in silence.
The guides, on their part, spoke not. The “Crow-Killer” stood, with folded arms, and looked upon his foes, while Dave supported the slight form of Leona.
“The ‘Crow-Killer’ is a great warrior, to dare to come into the lodges of his foes,” said the “White Vulture.” “The Great Spirit has given him into the hands of the Crow nation, and he shall die like a chief.”