“What means that?” he asked, turning suddenly upon his chiefs.
Hooker Jim stepped forward.
“The white Modoc is dead,” he said, glancing at the stiffened figure, clad in the easily recognized garments of Rafe Todd. “He hated the spies, and so he came to the cave to kill them. But the Warm Spring chief shot him from the river bank, and he run by Hooker and fell dead.”
“He is really dead, then?”
“Dead! Hooker felt his heart. It can not beat with a bullet-hole through it.”
A genuine sigh escaped the Modoc’s lips. His best spy was dead.
“Then away with the white Modoc,” he said. “He has done Mouseh much good; but he was a bad, bad man. Pale girl,” and he turned to ’Reesa South, “your painted beau is dead.”
The scout’s daughter did not reply, but a look of satisfaction beamed from her eyes.
“Girl glad?” said Jack.
“Why should I not be?” she asked, quietly looking up into his eyes. “He sent the Indians to our home. ’Twas his gold that drove the bullet to mother’s heart, his gold that gave our cabin to the flames. Should I sorrow for his end?”