CHAPTER IX.
OUT OF THE TRAP.
Tobe Castor keenly watched the slowly approaching red-skin. He could long since have disposed of him by a rifle-shot, had he felt so inclined; but that he did not choose to do. If he did, then the main object of the savages would be accomplished. Once given the exact position of the pale-faces, such a storm of bullets would be poured in upon them that death would be inevitable.
The old scout had decided upon a plan of action that he believed might work, though the chances were greatly against it. He saw that the red-skin would strike the bushes, if he maintained the course he had begun, at only a few feet from where crouched the fugitives.
The bushes, interlaced with vines and creepers, were very dense, and a person standing close upon the outside could not perceive those within, by night, unless he first parted the screen. This was what the savage would have to do, in case he accomplished his object.
Castor hoped to be able to quiet this dangerous customer with the knife, and so quietly that those who were watching his progress, would still be at a loss as to their exact whereabouts. It would be difficult, though he believed it could be done.
Warning his comrades by a gesture to remain perfectly quiet, the old scout moved along by slow degrees so as to intercept the savage. When the point was gained directly in front of the creeping figure, Castor paused and prepared his knife for use.
But the trial was not yet to come. A strange and unexpected interruption came and afforded the besieged a respite, none the less welcome, because unlooked for.
There resounded a hoarse, gurgling yell—a rifle-shot—another; and then the defiant shout in the unmistakable voice of a white man. Following, came wild cries and whoops from the red-skins.