“That’s more ’n humanity kin stand!” he hissed, “so, dog, take thet!”
With the last word, he tore one foot from the fastenings, but half secured, and furiously, mercilessly hurled his insulter from the limb.
Down, down shot the unfortunate brave, wildly clutching at the boughs, until he struck a root in the midst of his companions below, quivered once, then died—neck-broken!
The remaining Indian in the tree rose before the trader, with a yell of vengeance.
He struck the gory head with his tomahawk, and in less than a minute afterward, had torn the scalp away and was descending!
He encountered half a dozen braves climbing up to butcher the slayer of their brother; but the scalper told them that he was already dead, and they rejoined their companions.
Then the band moved away, leaving the trader lashed to a tree-top, scalped and bleeding.
It rained before day, and amid the darkness of the storm Doc Cromer opened his eyes, he thought, in another world.
He was burning with fever, and tried to quench his thirst with the rain that dropped from the black clouds.
“My God, shall I perish here with the ring that contains the mystery of a life?” he groaned. “Oh, if I could but slip it from my finger and drop it down to the ground.”