The chief found himself alone in presence of his two enemies.
On arriving at a tree whose enormous trunk appeared to guarantee the desired safety, disdaining to use his gun, and the opportunity seeming favourable, he adjusted an arrow on his bowstring. But whatever might be his prudence and address, he could not make this movement without discovering himself a little. Loyal Heart raised his gun, the trigger was pressed, the ball whizzed, and the chief bounded into the air uttering a howl of rage, and fell upon the ground.
His arm was broken.
The two hunters were already by his side.
"Not a movement, redskin," Loyal Heart said to him; "not a movement, or you are a dead man!"
The Indian remained motionless, apparently stoical, but devouring his rage.
"I could kill you," the hunter continued; "but I am not willing to do so. This is the second time I have given you your life, chief, but it will be the last. Cross my path no more, and, remember, do not steal my traps again; if you do, I swear I will grant you no mercy."
"Eagle Head is a chief renowned among the men of his tribe," the Indian replied, haughtily; "he does not fear death; the white hunter may kill him, he will not hear him complain."
"No, I will not kill you, chief; my God forbids the shedding of human blood unnecessarily."
"Wah!" said the Indian, with an ironical smile, "my brother is a missionary."