Some dark figure was approaching in the gray dawn; it was coming directly toward him. That it was a man he at once conceived, and the swaying of the body proclaimed him a white. If Indians were pursuing the man, the outlaw was safe; he could meet them boldly; but if white was chasing white, he had best remain concealed. He kept his eye on the runner until he almost started from the tree with excitement, and an oath escaped his lips.
The fugitive was Captain Strong, and he bore Huldah Armstrong in his arms!
“In the name of heaven, how did he get the girl?—and how did he escape the vengeance of the settlers?” exclaimed the Night-Hawk, looking at the sight that greeted his eyes. “But fate is aiding me, and I’ll make something of this golden opportunity.”
For several moments after the discovery of his identity, Zebulon Strong, flying from Wolf-Cap and his friends, as the reader already knows, continued to run directly toward Funk, but suddenly he veered toward the right.
Had he caught a glimpse of his new foe? The outlaw was inclined to believe thus, and cocked his musket with an oath.
“I’ve shot deer with muskets,” he said, audibly, “and as a running shot, I’ve been celebrated. Can I hit a man’s head at forty yards? Well, if I can’t, then my name isn’t Royal Funk!”
Talking thus to himself, the outlaw raised the weapon, and glanced over the glittering barrel at his rival, who ran on, unconscious of the new foe.
For a moment Funk sighted the moving figure, and then a jet of flame leaped from the bore of the gun.
Captain Strong stopped suddenly in his tracks, and, with the cry of “A dead shot!” the murderer bounded from the tree and ran toward him.
But the traitor suddenly attempted to continue his flight. He ran forward a few steps, then reeled, and fell dead!