“All gone now—the last of the three!” muttered the scout, passing his hand across his shaking lips. “And such horrible deaths for all! Death by the bullet and the fall from the cliff. Death by the war-club and tomahawk. And now death by the river—and the hands of a cursed villain. Horrible! horrible!”
These enigmatical remarks, uttered aloud, drowned a rustling in the bushes behind him. Suddenly a light hand fell upon his shoulder. The scout did not start—his nerves were too steady. But he glanced at the small, brown hand, and then looked up along the arm, turning his head until he looked full into the face of the White Antelope. There his gaze hung, while his lips remained speechless for the moment.
“Pa-e-has-ka has killed his enemy and mine. This makes the White Antelope and Long Hair friends.”
She held out her hand to him, and the scout took it, still in a daze.
“By holy!” he muttered. “I sure thought she was dead.”
“What is it my white brother mutters?”
“I reckoned you were drowned, White Antelope,” repeated Cody.
“Nay. I held my breath under the water. But that wicked man came near to drowning me.”
“I should say he did!”
“Then he would have revived me; but I remained as though unconscious, for I feared him.”