“It’s your last airing, my boy,” hissed Girty, quickly throwing the different parts of his rifle into their proper places, while the fiendish light of revenge lit up his countenance with a lividness as horrible as unnatural. “I’ll forestall the mad squaws in a portion of their work!”
Stepping aside, that he might not be perceived by his intended victim, Girty rammed a bullet home, and again returned to the curtain.
Unsuspicious of danger, our young hero still stood before Alaska’s lodge. His keen eyes seemed to be employed in surveying the village, no doubt for future action.
With a muttered oath the renegade drew his gun to his shoulder, and his eye glanced along the freshly-polished barrel.
“Shall I take him atween the eyes or through the heart?” he asked, self-communingly. “I want to make a dead shot—I want to keep up my reputation as such, and if I fire at his heart I might fail. I can see his forehead; his accursed heart is hidden.”
Then he elevated the gun just the least degree, and threw all his energies into the drawing of the “bead” upon Fairfax’s forehead.
“Now—here—you—go!” muttered Girty, and his finger pressed the trigger.
The last word still quivered his lips when something sprung past him, and the rifle was knocked from his grasp.
“Hell and Furies!” yelled Girty, darting to his feet, and clutching the swan-like throat of the girl who fearlessly confronted him. “You’re a she-wolf, and, curse you, I’ve a mind to throttle you!”
She could not speak, but her look was indicative of triumph over the brute.