Ku-nan-gu-no-nah was a great warrior in his tribe. When he went on the war-path he always returned laden with scalps and other ghastly trophies of rapine and murder. Besides this he was looked upon as the best shot among all the braves who acknowledged his authority as chief and leader.
Now he seemed to have lost his skill, and his rage and chagrin were unbounded.
With a snarl like that of a caged tiger, he threw the pistol over the bluff.
“Maybe it will go down to Bear-Killer,” he said. “It’s good enough for him! He won’t do much fine shooting now, I guess! Maybe he will have his revenge on the pale-face with it. I’m going to cut the lasso and send him down, too, now. I think Sun-Hair, the squaw magician, has saved him to-day with her devil-box, some way. I’ll cut the lasso, and see if she can keep him from falling into the water! A tomahawk won’t kill him, and a pistol is just as powerless to do him harm!” As he ceased speaking, he drew his hunting-knife and ran his finger along its edge.
The result of the examination was apparently satisfactory—the blade was sharp.
“I don’t believe she can hold him up in the air after the lasso is cut,” he muttered.
Replacing the hunting-knife in his belt, he advanced to the root of the tree, and began climbing up its trunk.
In two or three minutes he had gained the limb to which the end of the lasso was secured.
Crawling slowly along it—for it was not large, and the waters pitching and tossing underneath made his head swim just a trifle—he worked his way out to the place where the lasso was tied. How the water roared and rung in his ears!
He swung himself astride of the limb, clutching it with his left hand to make his position more secure, while with his right he disengaged his knife and dropped its keen edge on the lasso where it was passed several times around the projecting branch.