Shadow after shadow gathered among the trees, and the ring-hunters hailed the first approach of the moon with great joy. Her silvery beams dissipated the shadows, and streaming down through the leafy boughs, clothed the ground in a weird light.
Freshened by their rest, the Indians sprung with alacrity to the hunt again, which had scarcely been inaugurated when Omaha darted to the foot of a stunted fir, and stooped, with a wild cry of delight.
Raising quickly, he turned, and something glittered in his upraised hand.
It was the ring!
The Chippewas darted toward him with joyful shouts, and soon Omaha stood in the center of the wild band.
“Now!” cried Oagla, “warriors, back to your lodges. Omaha give Oagla the little talker. He not throw it away now. He—”
The sharp crack of a rifle benumbed every sense, and Omaha reeled from Oagla, whose hand was outstretched to grasp the ring!
And as he reeled, a death-yell pealed from his lips.
Then there was a quick step, a dark figure dashed through the red ranks, jerked the bauble from Omaha’s dead fingers, and was away like a rocket!
All this occupied but a single minute, and when the savages recovered their self-possession, they were staring into each other’s faces.