The death of the Indian.
And so it came about that in the twinkling of an eye Warren Starr was left without a pursuer. Not a solitary Sioux was in sight.
But he was too wise to think he was safe. He was simply relieved for the time being of his harassing foes. They must have heard the discharge of his rifle, and some of them would soon investigate when their comrade failed to return to them. This would be after a few minutes. Naturally they would suppose that the fugitive had been brought down, and not until a brief period had elapsed would they suspect the truth.
It was this interval which must be utilized to the utmost, if the youth hoped to escape. While the snow would reveal his trail so plainly that it could be followed without the least difficulty, yet his own fleetness ought to enable him to keep so far in advance of the Sioux that they could not gain another shot at him. True, he was deprived of his matchless pony, but the red men were also on foot, and therefore they stood on equal terms, with the opening in favor of the fugitive.
Warren would have been full of hope and resolution, but for Tim Brophy. His concern for his devoted friend forbade him turning the situation solely to his own account. He made a hasty examination of his rifle, and found nothing the matter with it. It was ready for use whenever needed.
Not a solitary warrior was in sight, and the profound stillness which reigned caused the incidents of the last few minutes to seem like some wild dream.
With that peculiar doubt that sometimes comes over one in such crises, Warren gently pinched one hand with the other. The result convinced him that everything was real—imagination had nothing to do with it.
The reports of his own Winchester and the Sioux's rifle were all that had broken the stillness since the headlong leap of the young ranchers from the back of the pony. There could have been no other report without its being heard by Warren, who was sorely perplexed over the fact.