Again the bloodhound uttered a hoarse, rumbling growl; and this time, sprang to his feet and advanced a step or two from his master’s side.
“Someone or something is approaching,” was Douglas’s mental comment. Then aloud: “Watch them, Duke—but do not leave me!”
But the dog had no intention of deserting his charge. Rigidly erect, menace and defiance in his attitude, he stood his ground. Ross listened intently, and thought he heard stealthy footsteps beyond the fringe of bushes that shut him in. But, through the interstices in the brush and brambles, he could see no one. Once more the hound growled, and more sharply than before. Then Douglas caught the patter of moccasined feet upon the snow-covered leaves, and the buzz of whispered words. A moment later the bushes parted and a painted Shawnee peeped into the glade.
Duke’s bristles quivered; his wicked eyes blazed. Revealing a double row of ivory fangs, he snarled savagely and crouched for a spring. Excitement lent strength to Douglas’s limbs. In some way—he never knew how—he got upon his feet and flung his heavy gun to his shoulder. With a grunt of surprise and terror, the Indian instantly withdrew his painted visage.
Ross sank in a heap upon the ground, whispering brokenly:
“Too weak—too weak! I’m at their mercy. Ah! Duke, old fellow, our time has come—for you will die fighting for me!”
And closing his aching eyes, he lay gasping.
Then came a thunderous rush among the bushes; and a half dozen savages stood within the cove, and as many rifles were pointed at the form of the prostrate and helpless man. Duke leaped at the throat of the nearest brave, and with him rolled upon the ground. At that moment a husky voice bellowed:
“Stop, you cowardly curs! Would you murder a wounded and helpless man? Harm a hair of his head, and I’ll have the life of the last one of you! Didn’t I tell you he was to be taken alive? Out of my way!”