As his lips grated the last word through clinched teeth, he hurled the two braves aside, and suddenly wheeling, dashed through the circle of knives, and soon disappeared in the somber recesses of the forest!
His action disturbed the would-be flayers; but they quickly dashed away in swift pursuit.
“You can’t catch Bob Somerville!” cried the giant hunter. “He’s the best runner in the Illinois, an’ with the thought ov bein’ skinned alive to grease his’ joints, he’ll be worse nor a streak o’ lightnin’.”
It was as the hunter had predicted. The scout’s pursuers soon returned empty-handed, and turned their fury upon him. The Yellow Bloodhound, incensed at the young man’s escape, now aided them; hitherto, for show, he had stood aloof.
A dozen fiends carried the giant to the tree, and the sinewy rope was passed around his neck.
But, as the son of Segowatha attempted to knot the cord, a rifle-shot rose above the vengeful yells, and, dropping the sinews, the young chief staggered from the tree with a dark spot between his little eyes.
With ghastly features the braves shrunk from the fatal flaying post, and the cowardly creole threw himself behind a tree.
A half-smothered cry burst from Doc Bell’s heart, and, as Little Wolf struck the ground, he darted from the stake. The affrighted red-skins drew back before him, and from the trembling hands of one he snatched a knife, burying it in the owner’s breast, with a backward thrust!
A single bound brought him to the spot where Oliver Blount lay.
He stooped over the trader, and when he rose erect again, a moment later, Oliver was at his side.