When they reached Bracknell they found him stooping over the figure, with a look of consternation in his eyes.
“Do you know him? Is it your——”
“Oh!” cried Babette. “It is George!”
“George! Who is——”
“He was my father’s man, and he is mine!” said Joy, staring at the fallen Indian with stricken eyes.
“No,” said Dick Bracknell quietly, “he is yours no longer! He has gone to the happy hunting grounds.”
“Dead?” cried Joy, as the truth broke upon her. “George dead! But how? What——”
Bracknell looked up at her, moved by the anguish in her tones, then he pointed to what she had not seen, a feathered arrow head, half hidden by the crook of the arm.
“Oh!” she sobbed. “He has been killed. He——”