After a moment of silence, the sentry again came toward him; and soon the scout could see him faintly in the dim light of the stars.
“Prairie-dog owls don’t ginerally go to rollin’ stones,” the sentinel was muttering, as he stood staring up the slope, trying to make out what it was had started the stone to rolling.
He could see nothing that warranted suspicion.
“Mebbe a coyote tryin’ to git at the owl,” he said to himself; “ain’t heerd the owl fer a minute er so. P’r’aps it was scared off by a coyote.”
As he came still farther up the slope, prying and peering, he saw something, and, pitching up his rifle, he fired at it. What he beheld was the recumbent form of the scout flattened against the rock.
The scout saw the rifle pointed toward him, and avoided its bullet by a quick, sliding movement. The lead struck the rock over his head.
That sliding motion was heard and seen by the sentry. He did not believe, then, that what he had shot at was a man, but thought it a coyote; and, because it had not bounded away, he thought he had slain it. He leaped forward, swinging his rifle; while a roar of excited calls and questions were hurled up at him from the camp.
He beheld the dark ball into which the scout had doubled himself when he knew he could not easily escape, and plunged toward it, with knife in hand.
To his astonishment, as he bent down he was caught by the collar of his coat and jerked flat on his face. He yelled in fright; then wheezed, as the iron fingers of the scout settled around his windpipe.
The men below were yelling up at him.