As he spoke, a blade glistened in his hand, which, as his gestures showed, was about to be buried in the body of Waboga.
The sentry stood staunch, apparently regardless of the death that threatened him!
The chief stayed his hand, surprised at the unparalleled coolness of the Choctaw.
Only for a moment; for as he stood regarding him, now close up to the body, he saw what explained all—a gash great as he could have himself inflicted!
Waboga was already dead!
The horse upon which the Choctaw was leaning, scared by the threatening gesture, shied to one side, and the lifeless form fell heavily to the earth!
The knife dropped from the hands of the Cheyenne chief, and, with a wild, distracted air, he turned toward his followers to seek an explanation. But before a word could be spoke all was explained.
A cordon of dark forms was seen closing up the entrance of the valley; the word “Fire!” was heard, followed by a serried sheet of flame, and the sharp “crack, crack, crack,” proclaiming the discharge of a score of rifles.
It was the last sight seen by the Yellow Chief—the last sound heard by him before passing into eternity!
And the same with his freebooting band. Not one of them went alive out of that valley, into which the trappers had decoyed them.