“On, on,” cried Lieutenant Baldwin, “there may yet be time.”
Mile after mile the pursuers covered, pausing not for food or water, until nearly sunset.
Bowie Knife Bill pointed to a thin column of smoke in the distance and said:
“Thar’s the varmints’ camp.”
The hearts of all the men bounded with excitement as they neared the spot.
“Are we in time?” was the silent question in the mind of each.
They dashed into an open space of prairie and drew rein near Spotted Lightning’s tent. The flap was closed. The troopers swung themselves from their horses.
“If it is as I fear,” muttered the general hoarsely to the lieutenant, “it means war with the Kioma nation. Oh, why did he not take some other instead of my daughter?”
At that instance the door of the tent opened and Inez Splasher, the general’s daughter, a maiden of about thirty-seven summers, emerged, bearing in her hand the gory scalp of Spotted Lightning.
“Too late!” cried the general as he fell senseless from his horse.