“No! no! Mabel; if you die here, so will I,” was the determined response, couched in a calm tone. “What were life to me without you, girl? No, no, dear Mabel; our troubles end together. Chief! Tom Kyle is my captor, I know; I am his, by your Indian law; but he is a white man, and has no right to me; so give me leave, chief, to perish here with my friend. Better—oh, a thousand times better this than a life with the outlaw, Tom Kyle!” she cried, with a touching pathos.
“Kyle! Kyle!” cried Gold Feather, from his stake. “Is your white name Kyle?”
The renegade was too astonished to speak for a moment, during which time he moved nearer Gold Feather.
“Yes, my name’s Kyle—Tom Kyle,” said the renegade, at last. “What’s your real name?”
“Ned Kyle, if I haven’t forgotten the past,” was the reply.
Tom snatched a torch from an Indian and shot forward like a startled horse.
“If there’s a scar on your shoulder, you’re my brother,” he cried; and the next moment a loud cry welled from his throat.
He dropped the torch, which revealed a scar on Gold Feather’s shoulder, and his knife began to sever the young chief’s bonds.
This action was met by furious yells, and the Indians drew their knives and tomahawks in a menacing manner. The dread circle, bristling with iron and steel, also contracted.
“Gold Feather is a traitor—he shall die!”