“You!” he cried, and with his left hand sought to draw the hunting-knife from its sheath at his belt, since save for this he was weaponless. The fur trader thrust his rifle across his horse's back and taking deliberate aim, fired. Bushrod, with his eyes still fixed intently on his cousin's face, and his hand still fumbling clumsily with the hilt of his knife, sank first to his knees, then he pitched forward with a single groan.
It all occupied but an instant in the doing, yet each slightest detail was distinct and vivid to Stephen. Until Bushrod fell he made neither sound or movement; he durst not use the loaded rifle he held in his hand, since his brother stood between him and the fur trader; but as Bushrod sank to the ground he strode forward with his piece resting loosely in the crook of his arm. Basil saw him coming and his first impulse was evidently flight; then he released his hold on his horse, dropped his rifle, and drawing a pistol from his belt, stepped eagerly forward to meet his cousin.
When the two men were quite near, the fur trader lifted his pistol. Stephen saw his black beard bristle like the mane of some angry animal, and caught the glint of his cruel eyes along the short barrel; the hammer fell, the cap exploded, but there was no report; and with an oath Basil threw down the useless weapon.
“It's my turn. I knew it would come,” said Stephen sternly; and he drew the stock of his rifle up to his shoulder. He was so secure in this belief of his, that no power on earth could have moved him to haste. He heard the hoof beats of the horses as they charged up the hill, yet the gun came slowly to his shoulder, and his aim was taken with the utmost deliberation. It seemed minutes while his eyes were finding the sights.
Basil, with an uncontrollable emotion of fear and horror, threw out his arms in a gesture of mute entreaty; then he covered his face with his hands, while a sob burst from his twitching lips; a deep groan followed almost instantly.
Stephen stood like a man in a daze, with his still smoking rifle held in his hand. The trampling of the horses roused him to some thought of his own safety; he took his eyes away from the writhing figure on the ground, and turned, intending if possible to regain the shelter of the barricade; but what was the use? One place was no better than another, for the end had clearly come. He seized his rifle by the barrel and heaved up the stock.
“Come on!” he cried hoarsely; and at his words the dark shouting mass of straining men and trampling horses closed about him.
He struck out fiercely but never blindly; each time his weapon was raised he selected his victim, and each time he crushed the life out of this victim with a terrible sweeping blow; for he had gone beyond fear, the dread of wounds and death, even the strong desire of man's strength in its prime, to live. A dozen guns blazed in his face; now he was down, now up; now down again; his footing slippery with his own blood and with that of his assailants; but now he was down, and for the last time; and the savages struggled fiercely among themselves, each intent on striking the body of this mighty fallen warrior.
The Californian had kept on down the western slope of the hill. When Basil released his horse, the animal trotted off toward the cottonwoods, and before it had gone a hundred yards Rogers caught and threw himself astride of it, and fled out across the plain, while back to the hill making lessening head against the freshening wind was borne snatches of his song. He had covered a third of the distance to the cottonwoods, when a child's frightened voice reached him.
“Pop! Pop! Come back! It's me—Benny!”