THE RANGER’S SHOT.
The intrepid chief of the Warm Spring Indians saw that he had missed the disguised scouts by losing his way among the Lava-Beds, and now he blessed the darkness that led him astray, for had he gained the objective point uppermost in his mind, he would, in all probability, have driven the knife or bullet into the hearts of the spies.
He and Artena trembled for the safety of their friends after the recognition, and concluded to remain where they were and await events.
Donald could hardly resist the temptation to drop Captain Jack, the head and heart of the bloody Modoc war, and twice Artena preserved that red worthy’s life by touching the ranger’s arm as it unconsciously raised the weapon of death.
“Don’t, Donald,” she whispered, the last time. “Remember our friends are in peril.”
Then his thoughts would recur to the peril of his friends, and the hammer would drop lightly upon the cartridge again.
After Wiaquil—or Cohoon—assured Jack that he and his friend would remain, a general hand-shaking took place.
Captain Jack was profuse in his marks of good-will, and his chiefs appeared pleased with the messengers and their message.
The last savage to take the runner’s hands was that worthy called by his brethren, Baltimore Bob, but known to the reader under his true name of Rafe Todd.
During the pledging of friendship he had stood aloof, with his dark eyes fastened with suspicious glare upon the twain, and when he did move forward it was by some sudden impulse.