The trio were on their feet in an instant, and beheld John Williamson with frantic gestures trying to beat back the phantoms that haunted him.
His aspect was enough to frighten the spectators; but their peril and rage drove every thing else from their minds.
The trader’s tone had reached the Indian camp. The council was breaking, and swarms of painted braves were rushing to the stream with their eyes fastened upon the spot where stood the seemingly doomed scouts.
Doc Bell, the giant, realizing the danger, with a dreadful anathema, sprung upon the dreamer like a tiger.
“Curse you!” he hissed, as he clutched the haunted trader’s throat, and threw him above his head as though he were as light as a child. “You’ll never dream of your victim again—John Williamson—never!”
He sprung to the edge of the cliff, and at a glance saw every Indian in the water below.
“My God! He’s going to kill John!” cried Oliver Blount, as he darted toward the giant.
“Spare him, Doc!”
“Never!” and with his word he hurled the body out into the air, and it fell among the savages below, with a rushing sound.
“Now!” yelled the backwoods Ajax, turning suddenly upon his companions. “For your lives, run!”