He would not die without a struggle, and therefore seized his rifle for the second time, for the purpose of braining his antagonist.
At that moment the gray wolf left his post.
The clubbed rifle dropped into the canoe, as the wolf buried his fangs in the hunter’s throat, and the brave fellow staggered back, trying to tear the mad animal from his breast.
In that terrible moment Simon Kenton’s last words burst doomfully and prophetically upon his mind!
But his end was not yet.
For in the fateful moment that followed the lupine attack, the sharp report of a rifle rent the air; the wolf relinquished his hold with a groan, and fell at Mayne Fairfax’s feet—dead!
The Wolf-Queen turned toward the shore, and saw a great coonskin cap surmounting a clump of prickly pears. Instantly a cry, but half earthly, escaped her lips, and a minute later she was flying down the stream, vainly trying to stanch the crimson tide that flowed from the gray wolf’s heart; while at her feet crouched the black monsters, drinking the warm blood of their lifeless companion.
The young hunter’s canoe began to drift toward the Scioto, and upon its gory bottom, as motionless as a corpse, lay Mayne Fairfax.
Suddenly the pear bushes parted, and a backwoods giant, bearing a long but deadly-looking rifle sprung into the stream, and intercepted the drifting canoe.
He looked over the side, and shook his head doubtingly.