Oagla smiled faintly, drew his knife, and, before Mossuit could interpose to prevent him, severed the girl’s bonds.
“Silver Rifle is Mossuit’s captive,” said that red worthy, stepping before Oagla.
“Oagla is a chief; Mossuit little more than a brave!” was the angry response, as the speaker, disdaining further words with his questioner, turned to the girl again.
“Give Oagla the little talker,” was the demand. “His blood’s hot now.”
Silver Rifle drew back an inch as the big Indian, with outstretched hand, stepped toward her as though he would crush her; but the next moment she leaped forward, and held his knife in her right hand.
Mossuit and his band applauded the lightning action, and, thus goaded to further madness, Oagla darted upon the girl!
Then Mossuit leaped forward and flung the giant aside.
“If Oagla wants blood—”
Mossuit was sent reeling from the giant, with whom he could not cope, and the challenge was broken.
Nor was it ever renewed, for in the second that followed, Oagla sprung upon the girl again, and staggered back with a crimson spot on the bosom of his hunting-frock.