The savages on the hill looked into each others’ faces in surprise.
“He is the White Tiger,” said Oagla, “and yet he says he is not.”
Omaha was puzzled, and Nahma’s words rushed over Silver Rifle’s mind—“There be two White Tigers!”
Now she thought he spoke truly. Here was one; where was the other?
Her thoughts were broken by a wild cry, sent simultaneously from fifty throats.
The captive had leaped from the stake, kicked the firebrands into the faces of his torturers, and was running for life through the funereal recesses of the woods.
During his narration of daring deeds, he had been tugging at his cords, and success had crowned his efforts.
With yells of dismay and vengeance, the Indians gave chase, and Oagla’s braves joined them with cries at once understood.
Suddenly Silver Rifle, who had witnessed the change of fortune with a smile, jerked the jaunty mink-skin cap from her head, and waving it aloft, sent a hearty cheer of encouragement after the fugitive.
“God help the brave fellow!” she cried. “Chippewas, he’ll pay your young demons for this night’s work! And I’ll help him if we ever meet.”