He took up the scout’s position, and a few minutes later was startled by a shot to his right.
“That means something,” he murmured, and as he vacated his spot, for the purpose of inquiring into the noise, he was startled again by two more pistol discharges in rapid succession.
These were the shots that consummated New York Harry’s treachery.
The last shot told the half-breed that they were not signals, for a death-cry reached his ears, and rapidly, but with caution, he neared the fatal spot.
He found the scalped bodies of the hoodwinked scouts, and was turning away, when a peculiar but not unfamiliar sound caused a halt.
Somebody else had been attracted thither by the three death-shots.
Who could it be but Indians?
Noiselessly the scout crawled behind a rock, and with ready weapons awaited the new-comers, for there seemed to be two.
The stars shone dimly upon the Lava-Beds, yet he could distinguish objects at the distance of several paces, and when the foremost of the new-comers came in sight, the scout, seeing at once that he was not a Warm Spring Indian, drew back with his knife, but did not strike.
The voice of the foremost man addressing his companion saved the lives of both.