The long rifle sprung to his shoulder, being cocked at the same moment. Then it spoke, the bright flash illumining the spot for yards around, also revealing full half a score crouching savages. A death-yell was blended with the report—followed by another, as the settler's rifle vomited forth its contents.
"Scatter now!" hissed Boone, rolling rapidly aside, barely escaping several bullets and arrows that tore the ground beneath the bushes.
His further words were drowned by the angry yells of the infuriated Osages, as they sprung forward, thirsting for blood.
A horrible scene then transpired in the gloom. A ferocious melée—a struggle for life or death.
Twice the savages reeled back from before the pale-faces, but again they surged forward, their number constantly augmenting. One, two, three minutes of deadly strife. Then Edward Mordaunt sunk down upon the pile of dead savages, his skull cloven in twain. A shriek of agony burst from the wife as she witnessed his fall, and, forgetful of self, she tottered forward with outstretched arms as though to protect him. A blow—a groan—husband and wife united, never more to part!
Edith shrieked as an Indian seized her, with uplifted hatchet. A dark form sprung between—the Osage fell dead. Strong arms carried her a few steps, then relaxed their grasp. A momentary flash of lightning revealed to her the convulsed features of Lightfoot—then she saw no more; she had swooned.
CHAPTER III.
THE CHIEF'S PERIL.
The face upon which Edith Mordaunt's eyes fell during the momentary glare of the lightning, was indeed that of Lightfoot, the Kickapoo outcast.