INDIAN’S FIGHT FOR LIFE.
The feeling of horror which overwhelmed the helpless prisoners at that awful moment exceeds the possibility of description. They heard their comrade’s scream, and that told them that no accident had caused the shutting of the door. An enemy had done it! They were lost!
But terrible though their agony was, it was nothing to that of the unfortunate Indian. For Indian was alone in the cave with the frenzied maniac!
The timid lad had shrunk back in alarm before the hideous apparition with the upraised knife. Then he stood staring helplessly, trembling like a leaf. He was unarmed; flight was impossible.
What should he do?
The old man flung his weight against the door to make sure that it was really shut. And then he whirled furiously about and faced his one remaining victim. Revenge and fury gleamed in his eyes as he stared. And the knotted muscles stood out on his clinched and eager hands. There was to be a desperate battle in that dark and silent chamber.
Perhaps if the creature had made even one sound to show that he was human the lad might have suffered less concentrated terror. But the man was as silent as the tomb he dwelt in. No cat could have crept more stealthily than he did when he began to advance.
He was in no hurry to do that, no hurry to relieve the frightful strain upon his trembling victim’s mind. He crouched low and glared furiously, as if meanwhile calculating his next move. Then silently he put out one foot and stole forward.
Indian’s eyes were fixed upon him, as if held by some uncanny spell. As the man advanced Indian shrank back instinctively, his movement almost keeping time with the maniac, though his knees trembled so that he nearly fell to the floor.
The man crept forward again, one step; and again one step Indian shrank back. He was so stupefied with terror, poor lad, that he could not even think that such a method could not save him. The wall of the cave was behind him! One step must soon prove his last.