“Why, that is Rochford,” cried Carlos; “and the Indian is that rascal Spotted Wolf.”
Scarcely had he spoken than we saw the Indians bend their bows; but they apparently dared not shoot for fear of killing Spotted Wolf as well as Rochford,—thus enabling the horse to carry both the Indian and his prisoner to a considerable distance from them. We immediately pursued them, regardless of the party on foot; but Tim having charge of one of the led horses, and I of the other, we dropped somewhat behind Captain Norton and Carlos. I could see that Rochford was struggling violently with the Indian, when presently he managed to free his arms from the rope which bound them behind his back, and pressing those of the Indian close to his side, he seized the reins, and endeavoured to check the horse’s course.
The captain and Carlos, urging on their steeds, were in a short time almost up alongside them. I saw Rochford turn to one side, as if speaking to Captain Norton; and while he was doing so, what was my horror to see Carlos, making his horse spring forward, plunge his long knife into the Indian’s breast, exclaiming, as I afterwards learned—
“Take that, you wretched spy; you’ll no longer play us any of your tricks!”
He had driven his weapon right home, and as he withdrew it, the blood, which flowed in a full stream, showed the fatal nature of the wound.
Tim and I now came up. Carlos, with the greatest unconcern, handed his knife to Rochford, saying—
“Here, Rochford, take this and cut the thongs which bind you to the Indian, and tumble the body out of the saddle.”
“What have you done, Carlos?” cried Rochford. “We might have kept the man as a hostage, and have made him useful.”
“It is too late to think of that now; see, he is already dying!” replied Carlos.