But then a new thought struck him. He would avoid the fight if possible; and the tree above offered him the means of hiding until all search was over, as he believed.
Along the cave floor he crawled, reaching the hollow tree with difficulty. Creeping inside, he loosened enough of the decayed wood to cover up the entrance, then clutching the grape-vine, dragged himself up to the mouth of the hollow. Ensconcing himself securely among the dense boughs, he drew up the vine, coiling it beside him. And then, utterly exhausted, he sunk into a sort of stupor, for it could scarcely be called sleep.
This stupor lasted until the sun was up, and was then only broken by a shout from below. Bewildered, half asleep, he listened. Voices come to his ear up through the hollow tree. He knew then that the cave had been searched while he slept, and that the enemy had discovered the passage he had used. And then he saw what a fatal accident his sudden awaking had caused.
His start had dislodged the coiled grape-vine, so that it fell down into the hollow trunk. And now it became taut, jerking from side to side as an Indian tried to drag himself up. Desperate, Lightfoot drew his hatchet, and at one stroke severed the vine. A muffled yell came up from below, then a heavy fall, followed by shrill cries of triumph as the Osages discovered the cleanly severed vine. They had found their prey.
Instinctively Lightfoot clutched his bow and started to descend the outside of the tree. But a twinge of pain reminded him that escape by flight was useless. And then a yell from the hillside below called his attention to a number of Osages running up to surround the tree.
Coolly the Kickapoo waited until the savages were within a score yards of the trunk, then his bow sent a feathered shaft deep into the breast of the foremost brave. Startled, the survivors broke for cover, but another missile overtook them, and Lightfoot yelled defiantly as another victim was added to the heavy price demanded for his life.
For a time all was still. Not an Indian could be seen; not a missile was discharged at the Kickapoo, though his position could be fairly defined. Once their chiefs had doomed Lightfoot to the stake; now they resolved that a similar death should be his.
A whiff of smoke came curling up the hollow shell. Lightfoot drew back. The Osages yelled madly. The sport was fairly begun. How would it end? How could it end but in the death of the hard-hunted outcast!
Thicker and more dense grew the smoke. A dull, sullen roaring was audible as the flames entered the shell, eating greedily into the rotten wood. The leaves began to shrivel and turn black. The intense heat drew great beads of perspiration from the skin of the Kickapoo. The forked flames shoot out of the hollow top. Still further back draws the outcast, now fully exposed upon a limb. His hair begins to shrivel, his flesh to crack. His torture is excruciating, yet he, with a defiant shout, echoes back the yells of the Osages.