Amazed at having the dead come to life in such an unexpected manner, as it seemed, the renegade uttered a cry and started back.
Custer's revolver was still held in the boy's right hand, just as it had been when he had fallen to the earth.
Whether a single load remained or not he could not tell, but quickly pulling up the hammer he raised the weapon.
When the robber of the dead, base craven that he was, saw this movement, he flung out his hands in an involuntary appeal for mercy, but the boy, after passing through such a bitter, bloody experience, could feel no pity for such as he.
The hammer fell, the crack came, and the bullet did its mission of retributive justice.
"My God! I'm done for. Curses on the young hound," half howled the renegade, reeling wildly in the effort to keep his feet, and at length plunging to the ground, where he lay covered with plunder, waiting for some other robber to relieve him as he had despoiled others.
Mason sank to the ground immediately, and it was not until several moments had passed by that he ventured to raise his head and look around.
Not an object was stirring near him.
If the marauders of the dead had noticed the shot at all, they had taken it for granted that it was fired by one of their number at a wounded cavalryman, and the shout given by the victim of the bullet went far to corroborate this idea.
As he looked, Mason saw one of those shadowy forms skulking about and bending over the dead.