Midnight Jack had advanced a pace from his position.
There was now a flash in his eyes, which few who noticed it had never seen before.
“I am here!” he cried, in the Sioux tongue, “and YOU are THERE!”
The road-agent's right hand shot upward as he spoke the last sentence, and the final word was drowned by the loud report of his revolver.
The crack was followed by a loud cry; the uplifted silver-mounted pistol fell over the pony's head, and old Tanglefoot, with a headlong pitch, went to the ground.
Rube Rattler straightened in an instant, for he had witnessed the entire tragedy.
“Stand back!” said the road-agent, calmly, wheeling upon the yelling redskins, now surging forward. “What is that white-livered dog that he should live a chief among the Sioux with his hands reddened with our brother's blood? Let him be thrown to the buzzards that watch in the sky for the carrion. Will our brethren listen, or must Running Water, to defend the deed, which by Indian law he has righteously done, shoot them down, and then die himself, knife in hand, upon them?”
The road-agent's words, uttered in good Sioux, had a startling effect.
They stayed the excited crowd; the wild cries for blood grew still; and Setting Sun advanced toward the daring man.
“Go on!” cried the chief. “We will listen to our Teton brother.”