It happened, at the same time, that one of the young Indians, who was on his first war-path, and thirsted for scalps as well as distinction, chanced to keep a more easterly direction than his fellows, when they took to the bush, as already related. This man, coming to an open glade whence he could see the shore, beheld the Eskimo women launching their oomiak in a state of frantic alarm. They were also signalling or beckoning eagerly as if to some one in the woods. Casting a hurried glance to his right, he observed poor Rinka, who had just got clear of the forest, and was running towards her companions as fast as her short legs could carry her.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he took aim at her and fired. The poor girl uttered a loud shriek, threw up her arms, and fell to the ground. It chanced that Cheenbuk was within a hundred yards of the spot at the moment, but the bushes prevented his seeing what had occurred. The report, however, followed by the woman’s shriek, was a sufficient spur to him. Darting forward at full speed, he quickly cleared the underwood and came suddenly in view of a sight that caused every nerve in his body to tingle—Rinka prostrate on the ground with blood covering her face and hands, and the young Indian standing over her about to operate with the scalping-knife.
The howl of concentrated rage and horror uttered by Cheenbuk instantly checked the savage, and made him turn in self-defence. He had run to finish his horrible work, and secure the usual trophy of war without taking time to re-load his gun, and was thus almost unarmed. Grasping his powder-horn he attempted to rectify this error—which would never have been committed by an experienced warrior,—but before he could accomplish half the operation, the well-aimed spear of Cheenbuk went whistling through the air, and entering his chest came out at his back. He fell dead almost without a groan.
Cheenbuk did not stop to finish the work by stabbing or scalping, but he kneeled beside the wounded girl and gently raised her.
“Rinka,” he said, softly, while he undid her jacket and sought for the wound, “is it bad? Has he killed you?”
“I feel that I am dying. There is something here.” She laid her hand upon her side, from a small wound in which blood was issuing freely.
The heart of the man was at once torn by tender pity and bitter indignation, when he thought of the gentle nature of the poor creature who had been thus laid low, and of the savage cruelty of the Indian who had done it—feelings which were not a little complicated by the reflection that the war-spirit—that is, the desire to kill for mere self-glorification—among some of his own people had probably been the cause of it all.
“It is useless. I am dying,” gasped the girl, drawing her bloody hand across her forehead. “But don’t leave me to fall into the hands of these men. Take me home and let me die beside my mother.”
She was yet speaking when old Uleeta and her companions came forward. Seeing that no other Indian appeared, and that the one who had shot Rinka was dead, they had quelled their alarm and come to see what had occurred. Cheenbuk, after stanching the flow of blood, availed himself of their aid to carry the wounded girl to the oomiak more comfortably than could have been possible if he had been obliged to carry her in his own strong arms.
With much care they placed her in the bottom of the boat, then the women got in, and Cheenbuk was about to follow, when the report of a gun was heard, and a bullet whizzed close past old Uleeta’s head—so close, indeed, that it cut off some of her grey hair. But the old creature was by no means frightened.