“Stop! Let me see your hurt. I may stop the blood, and then I will find the grass for you,” added the Arapahoe, in a kind voice, evidently swallowing the lie, and feeling no further suspicion concerning the identity of his seeming ally.
And, then, in the kindness of his heart, he strode forward and placed his hand upon the disguised scout’s head. The act was a fatal one; the fastenings of the grass head-dress became unloosened, and the mass came off in the Indian’s hand.
A wild cry broke from the red-skin’s lips, as the bright moonlight fell fully upon the features of the guide. There could be no possibility of mistaking them for other than those of a white man.
But that cry was his last upon earth; for, with an angry howl of furious rage, Tom Maxwell sprung erect, and grappled with his foe. His powerful arms bore the savage to the ground like an infant, while his hands were clasped tightly around his throat.
As they fell heavily to the ground, the warrior appeared to recover from his surprise, and struggled desperately for dear life. His arms were wound around the scout’s body with crushing pressure, and he writhed like a wounded snake in the endeavor to turn his foe.
Tom dared not relax his grasp upon the throat of the Arapahoe, lest he should cry out and give the alarm, to bring an overwhelming force upon him; then his fate would be assuredly sealed. And thus he could only try to throttle his enemy in time to flee from the spot before any other should be alarmed by the struggle.
For several seconds this continued; but then, to his horror, Tom heard a wild cry, and then the rapid rush of many feet, plainly coming toward him. He knew that the savages were alarmed, and had caught sight of the struggling foemen.
With a howl of rage, he freed one hand, and drew his knife. Then it glowed for a brief instant in the bright moonlight before falling with a heavy thud, sinking to its very haft in the broad chest of the Indian.
But still, even in the throes of death, those muscular arms held him firmly, despite Maxwell’s efforts to break the grip. With a desperate effort, Tom sprung to his feet, lifting with him the dead man, whose horribly-convulsed features stared him full in the face.
Then, with a fierce curse, Tom wrenched free, and made a step forward as if to flee. But he was too late.