Just then a sudden gust of wind swept past, causing the tree to sway a little.
Quick as thought he placed the end of the horn handle of his knife between his teeth and with both hands clung to the branch on which he sat. It swung from side to side two or three times, and the chief reeled for a moment as if he had lost his balance, he gripped the branch with the energy of desperation, his sharp nails sinking into the rough bark, and his swarthy face turned to an ashen hue.
In a minute or two the branch became motionless and he was once more securely seated, with one hand clinging to the limb and one foot twisted in the lasso in such a manner that he could disengage it at the instant of cutting the knot.
His situation was a perilous one, but his mind was so intent on the hellish work he was braving so much to accomplish that he heeded it not.
The least motion of the tree—a sudden gust of wind—a false movement on his part—the merest trifle would bring upon him the death he had planned for the man swinging below, who, until the lasso should be severed, was more secure than he. Again he clutched the keen-edged hunting-knife, and was about to draw it across the coils of the lariat.
A strange sound arrested his attention.
It was the voice of a man.
Steadying himself in his seat, he turned his head.
He beheld a sight so startling that he almost loosened his grip on the limb. The knife slipped from his grasp and he held on with both hands.
A white man stood on the bank not ten yards distant, with a rifle leveled at his head.