The glance from a bright eye explained the meaning to the captive. The figure was that of Feather-Cloud. She was working for his life.
As though suspecting something of the kind, two braves came and stood beside him, watching the growing of the death-pile. The respite was rapidly shortening. Would Feather-Cloud be able to carry out her plan?
As this thought flashed through his mind, Lightfoot felt a gentle touch upon his arms where they passed around the post behind him. He was answered. The Indian maiden was even then at work, unsuspected by the warriors who stood by, within arm's-length.
Lightfoot felt the bonds yield upon his feet, then upon his hands and arms. Something cold and firm was slipped between his fingers. One hand clutched the haft of a knife, the other that of a tomahawk.
The lips of Feather-Cloud touched his hands, and then she glided away. The time had come for action!
Like lightning the double blow fell—death-stricken, the Osage braves reeled back, uttering their quavering death-yells. Shrill and triumphant rung out the war-cry of the Kickapoo as he turned and darted toward the forest.
He was nearly clear of the village before the Osages recovered from their surprise. The pursuit was made, swift and instant.
From before the fugitive two bright flashes illumine the scene—two sharp reports break the air, and the pursuers falter as the death-missiles break their ranks.
But only for a moment—then they once more dart forward in deadly pursuit.