It fell almost at the feet of the Indian squaw, who drew back her charge, and at the same time kept her stout cudgel ready, so as to make use of it in case of necessity.
But there was no such need. Roger’s bullet had done its work well; the ferocious beast was already quivering in its death throes.
“Good shot, Roger!” cried the gratified Dick, as he lowered his own gun.
The other was already reloading his long rifle. That was a hunter’s instinct which had been impressed so urgently on the minds of these boys when mere striplings that they could never neglect the precaution. An empty gun is the nightmare of a wise hunter, for it makes him worse than helpless.
Roger was making haste, wishing to be the one to add the finishing touches in case anything more was needed; but such did not prove to be the case, for even as he completed the task of reloading his weapon the animal expired.
Dick was by now out of his saddle. He found a place to hitch his horse by tossing the bridle over a broken limb, caught the second animal’s lines and did the same; after which he turned for a look at the strange pair who had been saved from death, it might be, through the coming of the white boys.
The squaw was not much different from all of her kind, being wrinkled, and squat of figure as one accustomed to bearing heavy loads, for it is the women who do all the work in Indian villages, while the braves hunt, and carry on wars.
Evidently the squaw did not know whether to look upon these strangers in the light of friends or enemies. True, one of them had saved her charge and herself from a terrible fate; but then the white boys might decide to make prisoners of them, and carry them far away to their settlement.
She still gripped her cudgel, and her beady black eyes flashed fire as Dick approached. He saw that she was like a fox at bay, and ready to meet him half way if he gave evidence of wishing to do them harm.