“My God!” he gasped, as he bounded forward, holding his long rifle ready for use at an instant’s warning, “the bloody fiends will butcher them both! If I could only be there to help them!”
Suddenly, as he ceased speaking, the firing, which for two or three minutes past had been almost incessant, stopped. There was a moment of awful silence to the listening woodman, then there came a loud crash.
Darke knew what this was.
“Heavens!” he cried, “the devils have forced the door! Nothing can save them now! Their doom is sealed! Oh, Vinnie! Vinnie!”
His agony was terrible.
He had reached the boundary of the clearing. It was rapidly growing dark now, and he had little fear of discovery. He paused a moment to reconnoiter. Only two Indians were visible outside the cabin. He raised his rifle to his face; his aim was quick and sure; and an instant later one of the savages threw up his arms, and with an ear-splitting screech of agony, fell on his face, dead.
Almost simultaneously with the report of the woodman’s trusty weapon, another rung out inside the cabin.
“It is Vinnie’s revolver!” muttered Darke as he stepped quickly out of sight behind a clump of bushes and proceeded to reload. “Thank God she yet lives!”
Peering out, he discovered that the remaining Indian had set fire to the cabin and was skulking around the other side, probably to get out of range of his unerring rifle.
It was nearly dark now, but the settler fired again, and a bullet went crashing through the savage’s brain, just as he had almost gained the coveted shelter.