The brilliant eyes of the solitary red-man saw nothing but the tableau over the grave; but he was soon called to another scene.
The eyes of Silver Rifle had been riveted upon him from the first, and when his every feature became plainly visible, when he could have touched her with his hand, a terrible cry rose from her lips, and she leaped to her feet, looking like one who had suddenly encountered a ghost.
The Indian stopped, and the next moment Doc Cromer, like a tiger, sprung upon him.
The red-man was as a babe in the grip of the stout trader; but he shrieked before the great brown hand closed over his mouth!
To the ground went white and red, and Silver Rifle leaped toward them as the Indians turned from Omaha’s grave.
“My God! girl, what have you done?” cried the White Tiger, springing up and cocking his rifle, as he glanced from their enemies at Silver Rifle.
She did not hear him, for she was trying to pull Doc Cromer from the Chippewa.
“Don’t kill him, Doc,” she cried. “He saved me, and he’s—”
The trader sprung erect.
“I’ve choked the skeleton to death, I guess,” he said, looking down upon the savage, who lay motionless at his feet. “What made you holler fur?”