“Scissors!” roared Old Pegs. “You don’t ’spose we keer fur thet, do you? Hark; what’s thet?”
They heard a fierce growl from the bear, and then a cry of mortal agony. The three men grasped their weapons, and darting away in the direction of the sound, found the bear locked in a close grapple with an Indian, while another was running rapidly across the opening.
“Spies!” cried Old Pegs, pointing after the flying man. “Stop him, Dave!”
Dave Farrell brought his rifle to his shoulder, and fired, apparently without aim. The flying savage paused suddenly, made a leap into the air and fell upon his face.
“Euchered!” said Old Pegs, quietly. “I don’t want no Injins in my camp, you bet! Let’s look arter this chap Bruin hez harnessed.”
The teeth of the bear were fastened in the shoulder of the Indian with whom he struggled, and his claws were tearing him limb from limb. Old Pegs caught the brute by the neck, and by the exercise of all his muscular power, coupled with a loud command, managed to separate the two, and the Indian, a horrible object to look at, sunk back upon the sod, bleeding at every vein.
Old Pegs stooped to raise him, but at this moment his eyes opened and rested upon the face of Rafe Norris, who had followed the rest. A look of recognition passed over his face, and he seemed about to speak, when Norris drew a pistol and shot him through the heart as coolly as if he had been a dying brute.
“It is better to put him out of his misery,” he said, quietly; “and, as you say, it won’t do to have spies about us.”
“That was a coward shot,” cried Dave, angrily. “How dare you kill a wounded man before us?”
“My young friend,” replied Rafe, in his smooth tone, “don’t let us make any mistakes or have a quarrel out here, for I am quick on the trigger and might shoot.”