It hung at his saddle horn, and he quickly sprang to the side of his horse and secured it.
He could believe only that the woman was the captive of the redskin.
His rifle was of large caliber and long range, and he was noted as the best shot in the army of the frontier.
"There must be others near, though I could not discover them; but I can drop him, mount, and dash to her aid, and then run for it with her," he mused to himself, while examining his rifle to see that it was in perfect trim.
Then he crept cautiously toward the bush again, peered through, with rifle ready.
But Kit Carey did not fire as he had intended, for to his surprise, he beheld the Indian chief riding slowly up the trail toward him, while the one whom he had supposed was his captive was cantering off in the other direction.
But the Indian was a chief, and in full war-paint, and that meant trouble, if the two met.
He was in a locality where his life was at stake, within the danger line for miles, and a shot might bring hundreds upon him.
"This will be better than my rifle, though I would have fired to save her," he muttered, and he took his lasso coil from his saddle.
One end he left attached to the saddle horn, and leading his horse close to the steep bank near the bush, stood there behind its shelter with the noose in his hand ready to throw.