“What’s doin’?”
“They’re at the fire, but one of ’em’s coming.”
“’E’s lookin’ for ’is scalp,” Bill groaned.
They stiffened, motionless. Shep growled, and Terry nudged him frantically. The Indian—he had feathers in his braids and a gun in his hands—ranged right and left, and all the time drew nearer. At that rate, he couldn’t miss them—not if he kept on. Terry didn’t know whether to bolt or to stay. If Shep only would quit that growling——! Or if the Indian would only turn aside. To be shot, or tomahawked, would be awful. It took a great deal of nerve to stiffen, here, and hold one’s breath, and wait and pray. There was just the chance that they wouldn’t be discovered—but the Indian was coming, coming, in sure and easy fashion, looking for that scalp!
Quit it, Shep! Bill was gasping, in his efforts to utter no sound. It was worse for him, because he couldn’t see. Terry could see, with the corner of an eye, through the brush—and he’d about made up his mind that at the last moment he would bolt, and run, dodging, for the open. He’d have to risk a bullet, and have to risk being overhauled; but he might get away, and that would lead the Indian from Bill, too. There wasn’t any use in the both of them being found, in this one spot.
He was all braced, to make his dive, when on a sudden Shep took matters into his own hand. The Indian was scouting about, in the brush not more than twenty yards before—and out Shep charged, with a furious snarly rush, in defense.
Terry had no time in which to grab him; and it would have been too late, anyway. An instant more—so brief a space that the Indian was taken by surprise—and out from the brush Shep had sprung for his throat. He knocked the Indian backward. They staggered around together, Shep snarling and snapping, the Cheyenne fighting him off. Terry half sat up, to watch, his heart in his throat.
“It’s my dog,” he panted, to Bill.
The Cheyenne seemed to have Shep by the neck or jaw, and was thrusting with his other arm, stabbing him. Shep yelped, snarlily. With a kick and a fling the Cheyenne threw him aside; and as Shep pluckily struggled to his feet and still snarling made for him again, the Cheyenne quickly leveled rifle, and fired.
The bullet drove poor old Shep in a heap. He lay black and lax, scarcely moving, except to lift his head, and drop it. He had happened to land in a bare spot, and Terry could see him plainly. Yes, he was dead.