The death of Oagla was accomplished before the youth’s eyes, and while Mossuit faced the mad braves, and dared them to advance upon Silver Rifle, he heard the clicking of a rifle-lock.
It emanated from a spot not far away, where a footstep, which he had thought belonged to some animal, had died; but now he knew that the prowler was a man.
“Surely the Indian does not know aught of my presence,” he muttered, “for I was here before he came to yon tree. However, we will soon see for whose heart he cocked his rifle.”
He tried to see the body of the foe, and once or twice, believing that the savage saw him, he drew up to shoot, trusting to luck but lowered the weapon, undetermined how to act.
All at once a sharp report rent the air, and the youth saw Silver Rifle fall, as witnessed in the last chapter.
He could scarcely repress a cry of horror, for the unseen Indian was the slayer.
“Curse me for not shooting!” he hissed. “I might have dropped the fiend, and then—”
The savage, flying from his crime, was bounding toward him!
White Tiger’s heart took a great leap for exultation, and a moment later, with the butt of his rifle, he scattered the young brave’s brains far and wide!
“Oh, heaven, does Silver Rifle live?” he cried, starting impulsively toward the group about the fire. “That I have learned to love her, must she be snatched from me now?”