He arose from the ground and turned his gaze upon his hated and senseless rival.
It would be impossible to depict the fierce rage and triumph that flashed from the chief’s eyes, as he regarded his victim.
Clancy was still swaying slowly backward and forward over the whirling, roaring waters far below, that seemed to be filled with hoarse, clamorous voices, crying aloud for his life.
The motion of his body was more gentle now that the wind had died down. The lasso no longer jerked and cracked, threatening to break and let him down into the jaws of death, gaping wide below.
He hung pulseless and heavy, like a man that was dead—there was neither a tremor nor a pulsation to tell if he lived or not.
A hand placed on his heart would have felt the faintest kind of a flutter; that was all!
He was alive, but for how long?
It was impossible for Ku-nan-gu-no-nah to touch him from the bank.
He was uncertain whether he was yet alive.
But if he clove his head with his tomahawk, he would be sure that he was dead.