One of the Osages had blindly leaped upon Boone's back. A quick, writhing movement, and the savage is hurled head-foremost to the ground. And then a grip of iron is fastened upon his throat. A bright blade hisses through the air and buries its length in the Indian's back.
Stricken to death, the savage struggles and writhes convulsively, with what seems more than mortal strength. The hunter's fingers contract like the claw of an eagle, and the heavy knife once more buries itself in the quivering flesh.
With one frantic effort the savage frees his throat and gives utterance to a maniacal shriek of death-agony. Then, as though satisfied that his death would speedily be avenged, he lay motionless at the feet of the old scout, dead!
"Hist! for your lives! Don't stir a peg!" hissed the Wood King, as Mordaunt partially arose.
The death-shriek of the Osage had reached the ears of his comrades, and they paused, startled, alarmed. All was still now, save the far-away yells of the Pottawatomies, as they darted away in pursuit of Lightfoot.
The fugitives' hearts beat high. They prayed that the savages might pass on, lured by the thrilling chorus beyond. But this was not to be.
Several of the braves turned and cautiously retraced their steps, signaling each other constantly. Boone placed his lips close to Mordaunt's ear, muttering:
"If they find us, give 'em the best you've got. Tell the women to slip off through the bushes at the fust yell—not afore. Speak sharp, so they'll mind."
Mordaunt obeyed. Half-paralyzed with terror the women promised to follow his directions.
Boone clenched his teeth. He saw that discovery was inevitable. Already he could distinguish several dusky figures gradually nearing their covert, and, knowing the advantage of dealing the first blow, signed to Mordaunt to follow his example.