The rifle proved to be a good one in the right hands, for as the report sounded, one of the approaching braves sprang wildly forward with a convulsive drawing up of the legs, and was met half way by death.
Then the revolver commenced its fearful work.
As man after man lay down never to rise again, Bolly burst out into a wild, reckless laugh.
When the chambers were empty, only four men stood erect, and they looked as if they wished themselves anywhere but in their present situation.
Nothing daunted by the force of numbers, Bolly sprang towards them, holding his empty rifle in one hand and the long knife in the other.
Some stern duty appeared to call these four brave fellows in as many different directions, just then; at any rate they did not wait for the arrival of White Thunder, but dashed wildly away, forgetful alike of their wounded dignity, and their late dignified wounds. A shout from the old hunter caused them to expedite matters, and Bolly laughed at the ludicrous figures they cut.
A shrill neigh close by caused him to start. It was a well-remembered sound, and the hunter quickly turned his face in the direction from whence it came.
A horse, saddled and bridled, was fastened to a stake driven into the ground in front of a tent, and Bolly saw that it was his own lost steed. The animal had recognized its master, and had given token of its love for him.
With a few bounds Bolly was at the side of Black Bess.
As his hand fell caressingly upon the noble mare's mane, the skin serving as a door to the lodge was swept suddenly aside, and the next instant Bolly found himself face to face with Blue Horse, a noted chief, and an old enemy of his.