Suspending his breath Pierre stood to listen.
For a time he could hear nothing, not even the rustling of a leaf, and he was beginning to fear that he might again be made the mark of an unseen murderer’s bullet, when the screech of a jay came sharply through the trees.
It gave him instant relief, for he knew by the compressed scolding of the bird that some one was intruding upon its haunts. It must be the retreating assassin!
Guided by the chattering of the jay, he recommenced the pursuit.
He had not gone twenty yards farther when he heard footsteps, and the “swish” of leaves, as if some one was making way through the underwood. Directed by these sounds he rushed rapidly after.
Ten seconds more and he was in sight of a saddled horse, standing tied to a tree, and a man in the act of untying him. The man was making all haste, hindered by a heavy rifle carried in his hand. It was the gun that had just been discharged, and Pierre Robideau had recognised the man who had made the attempt to murder him.
Alfred Brandon!
With a shout, such as only one Indian-born could give, he bounded forward, and, before the retreating assassin could climb into his saddle, he seized him by the throat and dashed him against the trunk of a tree. The horse, frightened by the fierce onslaught, gave a loud neigh, and galloped off.
“I thank you,” cried Robideau, “and you alone, Mr Alf Brandon, for giving me this chance! I’ve got you exactly where I wanted you! For six years I’ve been longing for this hour, and now it has come as if I’d planned it myself.”
Brandon, by this time recovered from the shock, threw down his gun, drew pistol, and was about to fire; but, before he could get his finger on the trigger, his antagonist seized him by the wrist, and, wrenching the weapon from his hand, dashed him a second time against the tree trunk.