With a cry of horror she dropped the oar, and griped her rifle.
Half way up the path she saw a tufted head, and caught the glitter of a rifle-barrel before a jet of fire dazed her eyes.
A second later she lay motionless beside the boat, and the air resounded with yells of fiendish triumph.
Down the rugged path they came, and the foremost lifted Silver Rifle from the ground.
“Ball cut girl’s head!” he cried; “but,” looking up with eyes beaming with devilish satisfaction, “she no dead.”
The Indians crowded round with “ughs” of surprise.
“Silver Rifle no dead,” continued the warrior, “She live to die among the squaws. Oagla take ring. Him wear it now.”
At first Oagla’s hand shrunk from contact with the ring.
He thought of Hawkeye lying dead in the forest; but when he saw smiles of derision, with looks of covetousness, all about him, he took the ring, and dropped it into his medicine bag.
“Now, braves, back to the war-path!” he cried. “Omaha carry Silver Rifle. Oagla glad he did not kill her now. See that she does not escape; if she does, Omaha steps upon the death-trail.”