Across an open tract, he turned and glanced back. The Osages yelled loudly; they fancied him securely trapped. Sending back a yell of defiance, Lightfoot darted up the abrupt slope, forcing his way through the thicket of scrubby pines and cedars. Beyond this lay a few yards of open ground; then came empty space.
Leaping out Lightfoot knelt down, an arrow fitted to the string, another held between his teeth. Thus he waited the approach of the Osages.
He crouched upon the very brink of a precipice, at whose base, nearly one hundred feet below, roared the Osage river. Its surface was dark now, wrapped with shadows of the cliff, but the Kickapoo well knew how it looked as the sullen roaring came to his ears.
Plainly as though at midday he could see the swift current tearing madly along, dashing itself into spray over the sharp, jagged crests of scores of bowlders that had, from time to time, dropped from the face of the cliff. The passage was not an easy one for a boat in broad daylight; what then would be the fate of a swimmer in midnight darkness—if one should leap down from the hight above?
The Osages came on boldly enough, though they knew that, at bay, an awkward customer awaited them. But they had been sorely smitten that night—they thirsted for this man's blood with a vengeance that overpowered the fear of death.
As the first head showed above the thicket, the hunted outcast's bow twanged loudly, and a muffled yell, as the head sunk down, told how steady had been his nerves. Maddened to frenzy, the dead man's comrades leaped out upon the open, resolved to end all by one desperate rush. But another twang mingled with their cries—another dusky form reeled back, the death-yell dying out in his throat in a husky gurgle.
And then the hill was occupied by the Osages alone!
As he loosed the second death-winged arrow, Lightfoot turned and boldly sprung over the precipice, his wild war-cry sounding strangely thrilling as it soared up from the depths below. It ceased abruptly. Then came a peculiar sound. Was it the sullen plunge of a body into the water, or the dull thud of a human form striking flatly upon some of the jagged bowlders that pierced the waters surface?
These questions asked the Osages. But not long did their indecision last. With eager cries they ran along upon the precipice-edge, making for a point where the river-bank was low. Dead or alive they resolved to recover the body of their terrible foe.
But Lightfoot was not dead. Besides the great distance, he had to run the risk of falling upon some of the immense bowlders, which, in the gloom, were invisible. Knowing this, he yet retained his presence of mind, and, though expecting death to follow, leaped for life.