“I did not,” was the answer. “I never saw it before. Let me see. It’s got the initials R. D. C. on it. I don’t know anybody by those letters, do you?”
“Old Dick Capenfeld. He was killed by the Indians several weeks ago.”
“I’d like to know how the knife got here.”
The young hunters looked the blade over, and then both sat down by the fire. Presently Henry feel asleep once more, and after a bit Dave followed his example.
When they awoke it was dawn, and the storm had cleared away completely. The fire had died down, but it was easily replenished, and then both of the youths began a systematic hunt for the rest of their belongings. Henry declared that he felt all right, saving for a certain stiffness across the chest, where the tree-limb had held him down.
Dave was stirring among some heavy tree-branches when he leaped back with a loud cry.
“An Indian!”
“An Indian! Where?” came from Henry, and he caught up his rifle.
“Here—between the tree-limbs. I—I reckon he is dead.”
Henry ran to the spot, and both of the young hunters gazed at Boka the Fox. The tornado had caught up the Indian and landed him head first in the branches of a tree laid low by the mighty wind. In turning over the red warrior had been unable to save himself, and his neck had been broken, killing him instantly.