Quick as thought the Indian was upon the renegade, kneeling upon his arms and rendering them useless, while he felt of the point of his knife with a smile, and then ran his fingers along the ribs to make certain of the locality of the heart. But yet he hesitated to strike, and his face wore the look of the serpent when the bird is completely within its power, and it has only to dart out its forked tongue to bring death.
"Will the pale dog beg for his life?" he asked.
"Never!" was the reply of Parsons, knowing how useless it would be to do so.
"Then he will die!" hissed the Indian, "and with his bleeding scalp Muck-a-kee will deck the squaw of his race as he carries her away to be his wife."
"Devil!"
"The pale-face was a fool to think the girl would be his. She was destined from the first for the wigwam of the warrior."
"Oh! had I but known this!"
"It is too late, and he had better sing his death-song."
"Ha! ha! There comes a party of white men and the girl is rushing toward them."
For a single instant the red warrior forgot his cunning. He turned his head and somewhat loosened his hold. Parsons took advantage of it—wormed himself from under and sprung again to his feet. Never was the tide of battle more suddenly changed—never one renewed with more intense fury or more gallantly contested even though in a bad cause.