Joe rose to his feet with rifle swung high above his head.
When the savage was within twenty feet, so near that his dark face,
swollen with fierce passion, could be plainly discerned, a peculiar
whistling noise sounded over Joe's shoulder. It was accompanied,
rather than followed, by a clear, ringing rifleshot.
The Indian stopped as if he had encountered a heavy shock from a
tree or stone barring his way. Clutching at his breast, he uttered a
weird cry, and sank slowly on the grass.
Joe ran forward to bend over the prostrate figure. The Indian, a
slender, handsome young brave, had been shot through the breast. He
held his hand tightly over the wound, while bright red blood
trickled between his fingers, flowed down his side, and stained the
grass.
The brave looked steadily up at Joe. Shot as he was, dying as he
knew himself to be, there was no yielding in the dark eye--only an
unquenchable hatred. Then the eyes glazed; the fingers ceased
twitching.
Joe was bending over a dead Indian.
It flashed into his mind, of course, that Wetzel had come up in time
to save his life, but he did not dwell on the thought; he shrank
from this violent death of a human being. But it was from the aspect
of the dead, not from remorse for the deed. His heart beat fast, his
fingers trembled, yet he felt only a strange coldness in all his
being.
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