The man was Yellow Jack. The woman was Lottie Mitchell.
Thank God! he was yet in time! Such was the thought that flashed across his mind like intuition. Why, he could not have explained himself.
He did not speak—made no sound. But he bounded forward like a panther that thirsted for blood.
One hand clutched the neck of Yellow Jack. The other, uplifted, clutched a long-bladed knife.
The weapon descended with a dull, thrilling thud. The steel guard dented deep into the outlaw's back. The blood-stained point protruded through the gayly embroidered shirt-front.
Without a groan, Yellow Jack sunk forward upon the insensible form of his intended victim, a dead man. The blade had cloven his heart in twain.
Tenderly Burleson lifted the maiden from the floor and bore her to the soft couch of skins beyond. Her eyes opened, and a murmur of thanksgiving told that she recognized him as a true friend.
In hurried words he told her all, and cautioned her to remain silent. Then, with a lingering glance at her, he turned and glided away to give the signal of death.
Silently, like the shadows of death, the soldiers glided up and gained foothold in the outlaws' village. And then—but why give details? Surely enough bloodshed has already stained these pages.
That the surprise was complete—that, as the roaring flames of their blazing huts roused the slumbering outlaws, the wild yell of assault was given, is enough.