With the last words he pushed the instrument from him, and staggered back with a groan of despair.
The Indians leaped to their feet, and, with a wild yell, the gaunt taskmaster bounded forward with upraised tomahawk.
The youth could not resist; he sunk to the ground and looked calmly at his would-be slayer. But a form threw itself between him and the Indian. It was the form of his young companion.
“Charley, we’ll die together,” said the youngest boy, through compressed lips. “They shan’t kill you, and leave me. I persuaded you to undertake this death-journey—”
“No, no, George. The blame is mine! Heaven! the fiend is upon us.”
The boys saw the fiendish face and gory tomahawk of the Pawnee above them, and George threw himself upon the prostrate body of his friend.
The savage shot an expressive “ugh” from his lips, and stooped to tear the twain apart, for it was evident that one was to be spared, when the sharp crack of a rifle rung out on the cool night air, and the Pawnee staggered from his victims with a death-cry.
The shot started the Indians into fiery life, and, quickly following the report, a wild yell saluted their ears.
“Scatter ’em, Tecumseh!” cried the hoarse voice of a man. “We’ll give the Pawnee dogs thunder to-night. Cl’ar the way, ye red devils! I’m right among ye—Frontier Shack!—and ye’ve see’d me afore.”
Down the hill, like a dusky thunderbolt, came the speaker. He stood erect in the stirrups, a revolver in either hand, the reins lying across Tecumseh’s neck. He looked like a demon of destruction in the light of the fire, and he added new and terrible life to the scene on the banks of the Platte.