Bear-Killer was exultant. A moment more, and his fiend-like longing for vengeance would be satisfied.
He noted the distance carefully with his practiced eye, and with a grim smile of triumph on his blood-streaked face, raised his tomahawk and prepared to make the fatal throw.
Suddenly a wild, unearthly cry, like a prolonged wail, rung out on the wind, sounding strangely ghastly above its moanings.
Bear-Killer’s tomahawk slipped from his grasp, and a sickly pallor overspread his face, and those of his companions blanched to an ashen hue.
The four Indians gave utterance to wild cries of fear and consternation.
“The Spirit Warrior! The Spirit Warrior!”
A white steed was flying across a small opening in the forest directly toward them, and mounted upon its bare back, guiding it with neither bridle nor reins, rode a ghastly human skeleton of gigantic proportions.
With cries of terror, the stricken little band of savages turned to fly.
On came the terrible Phantom Rider with the speed of the wind!
As it drew near, it sprung up suddenly, and standing upright on the back of its flying steed, threw something round and black high in the air; then, with another unearthly scream, rode on and disappeared in the forest.