“You’re a sharp redskin,” he said; “but you’ve betrayed your last man. Now go and join the brethren I sent downward from the camp on the Rosebud!”
The knife flew upward, armed with vengeance, but the next instant a voice caused Dan to spring erect without having struck the deadly blow.
“If you’ve no objection, pard, I’d like to take a hand in that game!” said the voice.
The dirk almost dropped from Dan’s hand, and for several moments he presented a splendid picture of amazement as he stood in the moonlight, staring at the individual who had spoken.
“The boy, by the cups of Bacchus!” fell from Dan’s lips. “This is a meeting most unexpected, and decidedly unpleasant. The youngster’s got the drop on me, and there’s no reason in the world why he should let up on Deadly Dan. But he doesn’t seem to recognise me. Maybe—”
The Sport’s sentence was broken by the sudden spring with which Red Crest regained his feet.
“Brother! brother! See! see! it is the Wolf of the Rosebud!” the Indian cried, turning to the boy. “He is on the trail once more!”
A startling cry came from the youngster’s throat as he sprung forward.
Deadly Dan instinctively shrunk from the revolver which the boy thrust madly into his face. He was not ready for the fatal bullet.
“No!” suddenly cried the boy. “Brave men die by the pistol; cowards and murderers by the rope. Seize him, Red Crest!”