Then he thought of his own safety. Flight, instant and speedy, alone could save him, before the scattered Osages could fairly surround him.
Calling into play every muscle of his stout frame, he sprung forward, swinging the long, heavy rifle before him. Two savages fell before its tremendous sweep, and an opening was made.
Through this Boone darted, striking down, broken and helpless, the arm that was raised to stay his flight. Then a wild thrill ran through his veins as he realized that all his foes were behind him—and a single exultant yell broke from his lips as he darted away through the forest, entering upon a stern, desperate race for freedom, if not life.
His shout told the Osages all, and they dashed after him with yells of horrible rage, that not even the deafening peal of thunder could entirely drown.
At least the defiant cry of the Wood King was productive of one good result, whatever might be its effect otherwise. Lightfoot was just staggering to his feet, when Boone broke away, and drawn off by the cry, the Osages passed him without notice.
Still confused by the heavy blow that had felled him to the ground, Lightfoot supported himself by a bush, and stared around him. The storm was beginning to rage, the lightning-flashes followed each other in rapid succession, lighting up a soul-harrowing scene.
A glimpse of a woman's garments roused Lightfoot from his half-stupor, and with an inarticulate cry he sprung forward and sunk to his knees. Breathlessly he waited for the next gleam of lightning.
In that score of seconds he suffered the tortures of the damned. He knew that he knelt beside the dead. His hand rested shudderingly upon the shattered skull of a woman. He feared it was that of Yellow-hair.
The character of Lightfoot may seem exaggerated—overdrawn, but not so. True, he was an Indian among a thousand, but such a being really lived and breathed. Edith Mordaunt had, by her tender care and skillful nursing, brought him safely out from the very shadow of death. He owed his life to her. He was ready to repay the debt; for her sake he had renounced his tribe, his people, his faith—for her he had become an outcast. He would have died to spare her one moment's pang. And now he believed he was kneeling beside her dead and mangled body.
The flash of lightning came, and a cry of joy broke from the Indian's lips. The blood-stained hair beneath his hand was gray—almost white: that of Mrs. Mordaunt.