The dog was out of sight in a second, but the trail of blood, instead of leading directly to the rear, wound off to the right. The trail was growing fainter every minute, which demonstrated that the wound was closing, or that it was becoming filled with clots.
While Jule hesitated about following on after the dog, thinking that he had gone crazy, the sound of a revolver came to his ears, and the pursuit was taken up again.
The lad reached an opening in the shrubbery just in time to see the dog and the outlaw in what seemed to be a death struggle. The man had evidently fired one shot at the dog and been too late to fire again. He had been seized by the dog and thrown to the ground.
His revolver lay by his side, just beyond his reach. The fellow was already in the agonies of death.
Jule sprang forward, but it was too late. The blood which was scattered liberally over the rank grass told him that. The dog had severed the jugular vein.
“I don’t blame you, Captain Joe,” the boy said, kneeling by the side of the fast-failing outlaw, “not a little bit! He shot you while you were running away from him, and you got even in the only way you knew; still, I wish you had let him live.”
There came a gurgle of blood at the throat, the wounded man struggled for a second for breath, and all was over.
Jule laid the head of the man back reverently. Whatever he had been in life, death had canceled. The record was of his own making and must be judged by One wiser than the combined wisdom of earth.
Captain Joe, to tell the truth, did not appear in the last downcast by the manner in which the incident had terminated, for he frisked about the boy as if expecting to be praised for what he had done. Seeing that words of commendation were not likely to be forthcoming, he darted away down the river.
Jule followed on behind, leaving the dead outlaw to be cared for later on. He reached an opening in the tangle of underbrush just in time to witness Alex’s capture of the three outlaws.