Even as his daring ruse seemed fully successful, he heard the double report—the wild yell of angry vengeance that told of his friends' discovery by the Osage braves. He knew that Yellow-hair was in peril most imminent, and the knowledge nearly crazed him.
Like a madman he turned abruptly and rushed back toward the spot where he had left his friends, caring nothing for the risk he himself run—thinking only of her. Bewildered by this new alarm, taken by surprise by the desperate rush of the outlawed chief, the Pottawatomies allowed their enemy to slip through their fingers, when the game was fairly their own.
Halting for nothing, Lightfoot dashed on at top speed, fearing lest he should be too late. He sprung into the little opening with drawn hatchet and knife.
He heard Edith shriek, and thus guided, he sprung to her side. A brawny Osage stood bending her head backward by the long hair, a blood-stained tomahawk brandished on high.
With a fierce, grating snarl, Lightfoot leaped at his throat. Then followed a swift stroke—the savage writhed in death-agonies at the feet of the Kickapoo.
"Lightfoot save you, or die!" muttered the chief, as he gathered the trembling form to his broad breast.
He sprung forward a few steps, then faltered, his eyes dazzled, blinded by the unusually vivid flash of lightning that shed around the brightness of noonday.
A dark form leaped before him—a heavy weapon fell with a dull thud full upon the unprotected head, and Lightfoot sunk lifeless to the ground. Edith shrieked faintly as she recognized the stricken form—then, with a dim sense of being tight clasped by strong arms to a broad breast, her senses reeled and she fainted.
And Boone, the Wood King?
He fought bravely, desperately, with the strength, skill and activity of renewed youth. He struggled on while a gleam of hope remained—until he alone of that little band of fugitives was left upon his feet. All were down—either dead, dying, or senseless.