In brief, this man was Donald McKay, the head chief of the Warm Spring Indians, and an oft-repeated description of him in the daily journals have acquainted the reader with his personale, long ere this.
He saw nothing but the retreating forms of the spies, and as he struck the ground, he drew a cocked revolver from his belt.
“So the accursed Klamaths are mixing in the war, eh?” he muttered, with rising indignation, starting toward our friends. “By heavens! Captain Jack shall never hear what old Arrow-Head’s emissaries have to tell him. Two Klamaths shall never cross the California line again—not if my revolver is true to my eye.”
The fire still revealed the two spies, and the half-breed’s weapon shot upward to the level of his stern, black eye.
And the dark-brown finger was pressing the trigger that would speed the deadly lead to Kit South’s brain, when the sharp twang of a bowstring sounded behind the chief, and he staggered against the wall, with an arrow sticking in his side.
But he recovered in a moment, and started toward the Indian, who was rushing forward to complete his victory.
“I’m not dead yet!” hissed the Lava-Bed Ranger, and his voice and action caused the Indian to execute an abrupt halt.
He tried to fit another arrow to his bow; but the scout was too near, so he wheeled, with a cry of regret, and darted toward the underground river.
The next instant Donald McKay covered him with the revolver; but the shot took no effect, for the savage was zig-zaging at a terrible rate through the demi-darkness.
Hoping for another chance, the half-breed scout ran on, only to see a dark form leap from the bank, and to hear a dull plash in the water.