The fast-glazing eyes looked steadily into those of the questioner, and the white lips whispered faintly:
“I see both of you, my—my children; but very—very dimly. Do not—move out of my sight. I’m dying! It is best so. I have given my life for you, my son; and I—I die happy. I am going—give me your hands! Good-by—I—I——”
With a deep, tremulous sigh, he closed his eyes. Twice the deep chest heaved spasmodically. And he was dead.
“My father—oh, my father!” Ross moaned, still clinging to the dead man’s hand.
Joe Farley overheard the words and muttered to himself:
“Ross Douglas’s father! Scar Face—Hiram Bradford—John Douglas—all one an’ the same. Dang-it-all-to-dingnation! Hang-it-up-an’-take-it-down-an’-cook-it! Won’t wonders an’ mysteries never come to an end?”
Then, in a low tone, he said to the Wyandot:
“Injin, we’d better call Duke away from that painted lump o’ taller out there. I s’pect the dog’s worried the cuss a good ’eal by this time.”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing snorted contemptuously. “Duke no worry fat paleface-redman now; fat paleface-redman heap much dead. Me stick knife in him.”
“Huh!” Farley ejaculated. Then to the dog: