But Frank did not lie thus a great while. As he was getting upon his feet, rubbing his arm and shoulder, he saw Iva St. Ives and Stephen Fenton come over the fence. And Fenton jumped his horse almost in the track of the boy who had been in advance, although he must have seen that an accident of some sort had happened.
One glimpse of Fenton’s face did Frank obtain, and he knew the man had hoped to maim or kill him. Barely was he able to leap aside and escape from beneath the feet of the horse Fenton bestrode.
Iva St. Ives would have reined about, but Frank motioned for her to keep on, shouting:
“Don’t stop for me! I’m all right! I’ll be in at the death!”
The other hunters cheered him, while Fenton and the girl went on without stopping.
Frank knew a shot had been fired. He stooped over Firefoot, and a glance showed him the horse was dead. From a bullet hole in the animal’s head blood was welling.
“I knew it!” muttered the boy, his face hard and set. “I saw the puff of smoke even as I fell. It came from those bushes yonder.”
Toward the bushes he ran, paying no heed to those who called to him. He was on a fresh scent, and he kept repeating over and over:
“I’ll be in at the death—in at the death!”
Into the bushes he plunged, regardless of the fact that he did not know but the would-be assassin was still crouching there. He was ready for anything he might meet.