Jack was tearing over the ground at a killing pace, but he could not reach them in time. He could carry his rider there in time to shoot down the Indian, but not soon enough to prevent his burying his knife in the innocent heart.
But there was a wonderful sharpshooter among the cavalry. He saw the awful peril, and throwing his horse on his haunches, brought his gun to his shoulder.
During the instant it was at a level, Hugh Kingsland dashed out of the hollow, bare-headed, and, with hair streaming, ran toward the Indian and his little girl. One pace behind him sped his wife; she was seen to make quick, earnest gestures to the approaching horsemen, and they thought it an appeal to them not to lose a second if they would save her child.
At that instant the sharpshooter pressed the trigger of his weapon; the Indian dropped the little one, threw up his arms in an aimless way, staggered back and sank to the ground.
The next minute the troop thundered up, Brinton almost among them.
"Are you hurt, my darling Edith?" he called, leaping out of the saddle, catching her in his arms, pressing her to his heart and kissing her; "speak! did he hurt you?"
The child was bewildered by the great confusion, and, without answering her brother, looked him affrightedly in the face.
"Why, Brint, is that you?"
"Yes, yes; heaven be praised, you are not harmed! Oh, how can I be thankful enough? And you, father and mother! what a blessed sight!"
The mother gave him one grateful glance and then knelt by the fallen Indian, just as Edith, slipping from the grasp of her brother, ran to the prostrate figure and bent over it, asking in a voice of inexpressible tenderness—