“He’s my brother!” grated the renegade, in a fierce, determined tone, and he shielded the marked man with his body. “Apaches, listen to me. Many moons ago—”
The vengeful yells drowned Tom Kyle’s words, and he stopped in the beginning of a narrative and cursed the red fiends from the depth of his heart.
“I’ve been a devil, I have!” he shouted; “but I won’t desert my brother. I’ll stand by him to the last, and if you get him, ’twill be over the King of the Pawnees.”
“Tom Kyle, you’re a man once more. I wouldn’t shoot you now for the world.”
It was Frontier Shack who spoke, and over the flames that were now lighted up before him, he looked upon the striking tableau.
The Indians were furious.
Tom Kyle had not a red friend in the village now, and over all the monster death spread his black wings and slowly descended.
The chord of life was being rent in twain for many.
Nearer and nearer came the Indians; the outer ones pushed the front ranks, and Tom Kyle saw that he was to be taken alive.
His days of sovereignty were ended. He who had controlled a nation could not now control a single man.