“Injins! and worse than Injins,” said Dwight. “They’re half white and half red, and the white part is the worst of the two, for a renegade is the worst critter on earth.”
He walked to the window, and looked out.
Several forms were dancing in and out among the trees on the edge of the narrow wood patch.
As the borderman had said, some of these were white and others were red, and probably the whites were worse by far to deal with than the savages to whom they had linked themselves.
A big Indian stood exposed for a moment by the side of a tall cottonwood.
That moment was his last one on this side of the happy hunting-grounds.
Jared Dwight’s rifle, its muzzle peering out through a little hole, spoke out sharply, and the red-skin, leaping high into the air, with an awful shriek, fell lifeless to the ground.
Some of his comrades dashed forward to lift him from the ground.
Jared spoke out sharp:
“Shoot the foremost man!”