Big Thunder—for the man in the thicket was the Ponca—thought that the hour for his revenge had struck. Slowly his rifle arose to his shoulder, he drew a bead on the form that topped the ore-dump, and one long finger caressed the rifle’s trigger.
The finger, however, did not press the trigger. At the critical moment, Big Thunder lowered the rifle, and laid it carefully down beside him.
There might be other white men in the vicinity, and the sound of the rifle-shot would be heard. In that case, Big Thunder would have difficulty in escaping after he had secured his revenge.
Starting to a crouching posture, the Ponca rested his right hand on the hilt of his skinning-knife. He would use the knife, coming upon the kneeling form of the scout before he was aware that danger threatened.
With the noiseless tread of a puma the savage left his concealment. The shadow of a cloud does not cross the ground more silently than did the moccasined feet of the vengeful Ponca. Like a specter of ill omen he gained the foot of the ore-dump, and began climbing it without displacing a stone, or a thimbleful of sand.
Yet, as it happened, the Ponca was not unseen, even though the scout was oblivious of his presence. Another Indian, with a tread as silent, emerged from the bushes.
It was Wah-coo-tah.
She looked about her quickly, saw the Ponca mounting the ore-dump, taking up the pick as he went, and hastened breathlessly toward the shaft.
Wah-coo-tah was unarmed. Big Thunder had seen to that when he took the girl from the lodge of her people.
So, as Wah-coo-tah glided toward the shaft, she armed herself with a stone.