A revolver shot rang out. There was a groan and a heavy fall. The old mountaineer, struck in the back by the villain’s bullet, had pitched forward and fallen against the tent.
The shot and Alta’s scream brought the Indians in a rush to the spot. When Flying Arrow discovered what the White Injun had done, he leaped like a panther at his throat and drove his knife into the murderer’s heart.
“You kill my friend, Long Beard; you wrong Laughing Eyes; you die, you die!”
Fred, desperate to do something to save Alta, and unable to stand the suspense, had flung fear aside and followed Uncle Dave into the camp. The shot and Alta’s cry brought him into the crowd in time to see the Indian strike down the brute. But his thoughts were all for Alta and Uncle Dave. Rushing to his old friend’s side with her, they raised his dying head and tried to call him back to consciousness.
“Oh, Uncle Dave!” she cried, “you must not die. Speak to me.”
His eyes opened. He came back enough to realize dimly what was happening.
“Don’t take it—too hard,” he said falteringly; “it’s only—the end—of the—long trail.”
The young chief was bending over his old friend with them.
“Long Beard, you know me. Flying Arrow—your papoose-boy long time ago.”
“Yes, yes,” he faltered, “I—know—you;—thank God, you’re here. You—save my white boy and girl now. You promise?” The words came with great effort.