Unheeding the cry in their excitement, the savages broke cover and rushed in a body toward the figure. At that moment the settlers poured in a deadly volley, then charged up the hill, uttering their terrible war-cry.
Over a dozen braves fell—the others seemed petrified with horror. But as the settlers came closer, the survivors turned and fled with all the speed left in their bodies.
In hot pursuit the settlers followed—all but the Wood King. He rushed to the spot where the man had fallen, and tore the still smoking garments away. A groan broke from his lips as he recognized the body. It was that of Lightfoot.
Boone knelt beside the body of his comrade. Then he started abruptly back. A hand moved—glided swiftly to the charred belt, clutching the hot handle of a knife. The chief's eyes opened, a mad fire burning in their depths. He struck viciously at the kneeling form. Boone caught the hand and held it fast.
"Chief—don't you know me—your friend?"
Slowly a change came over the blistered face, the fire softened in his eyes, and the weapon fell to the ground. The mouth opened—a husky gurgle followed. He could not speak. He had breathed the scorching flames too long.
Great tears rolled down the Wood King's face, for he knew now that his friend—tried and true, though with a red skin—was dying. But he dashed them aside, as Lightfoot made a peculiar gesture. One hand traced a circle in the air then touched his own bare and blistered head, afterward motioning toward a dead Osage that lay near.
Boone read the pantomime aright, and shuddered, but he could not refuse the last request of a dying friend. He dragged the Osage near, then averted his face. Lightfoot partially raised his body, and tore the scalp from the gory skull. Then he shook it aloft, a horrible sound parting his lips.
Boone turned quickly. The outcast fell back. He had died while attempting to sound his exultant war-cry.