"They're worse than wild Indians just now," said Stephens, whose eyes were beginning to glow like hot coals; "they're Indians with liquor enough in them to make 'em crazy for more, and ready for any devilment."
"Say, Mahletonkwa," he called out, raising his voice and advancing a step, "quit that hammering, will you! There's trouble in the house, and you mustn't disturb them."
The Indian took no more notice of him than a striking clock might have done, but went on pounding with loud, continuous blows on the resounding wood.
"Stop it, will you!" cried Stephens, springing forward; "don't you hear me? There's a dead man in there, I tell you, and a poor woman mourning."
"I want more whiskey," said Mahletonkwa excitedly, and he beat the door with both hands.
The next moment Stephens had him by the shoulders and whirled him around, and with a push sent him staggering half a dozen yards from the house.
The Indian recovered himself, wheeled sharp round, and with a yell of rage drew his knife and bounded upon Stephens. He, too, drew his to defend himself, but as he did so Rocky sprang between them, pulling his Derringer. Alas! the Indian's knife was quicker than the pistol; he grappled Rocky instead of Stephens, and stabbed him in the breast. Down went Rocky with a crash upon the ground, the pistol dropping unfired from his nerveless fingers, and the blood poured from his mouth.