Believing this the true solution of the dead stillness, he sprung forward and parted the bushes. A wild cry broke from his lips.
The covert was empty—unoccupied, save by the still and lifeless form of the Arapahoe, who had fallen by the strong hand of Delaware Tom. Where was Clara?
“What fo’ you mek holler like dat? Where squaw?” called out the Delaware from below.
“My God! Tom, she’s gone! She is not here!” gasped Travers, in wondering alarm.
CHAPTER IX.
BOUND TO THE STAKE.
The situation of old Tom Maxwell, was not one to be envied. Lying helplessly bound, surrounded by a score of yelling, exultant red-skins, who showered kicks and cuffs upon him with merciless celerity.
Taken in the very act of slaying one of their comrades, he could expect but little mercy at their hands; indeed he felt some surprise that they spared his life even for those few moments.
Suddenly a tall, powerful form strode through the corral, rudely elbowing the braves aside, all resistance ceasing as they caught sight of the one who handled them so unceremoniously. Evidently the new-comer was one high in rank among them, judging from the deference with which he was regarded.
Waving back the red-skins, he stood over the form of the captive scout, gazing keenly at his upturned features. A quick and powerful change passed over his face, and a hoarse cry broke from his lips, while one hand nervously clutched the tomahawk that hung at his side.
“Ugh! Three Scalps!” he uttered in his native tongue; and even then there seemed to be a tinge of respectful admiration in his voice.