Where the danger to him was the greatest, there was no sign given to put him on his guard.
“Well, this is a lucky hit,” he muttered to himself. “All I’ve got to do is to keep quiet, and I shall find out what the red-skins are up to.”
Hardly had the words left his lips when there was a whizzing sound like an arrow cutting the air, and the next instant the deadly shaft was quivering in the trunk of the tree, hardly an inch above his cap.
Glancing quickly about he saw the savage, bow in hand, hardly a dozen paces from where he stood.
The quivering shaft told him that he was discovered, and quick as thought he brought his rifle to his shoulder and ran his eyes along the barrel.
The red-skin saw that he had missed, and turned hastily to cover himself by the trunk of a tree. But he was too late. The finger of the scout was on the trigger of his rifle, and the next instant the bullet it contained was on its errand of death.
The aim was an unerring one, and the leaden messenger did its work well.
With a howl of agony, the savage went down to the earth, never to rise therefrom.
His death-cry was echoed by one of rage on either side. Two others at the same moment had caught a glimpse of the scout, and they closed about him, determined that he should not leave the spot alive.
They felt now that they had the Death-Dealer in their power.