His intention was to make a dash for life, for he had heard a noise
behind the rock, and remembered the guard. He saw the savages glance
behind him, and anticipated danger from that direction, but he must
not turn. A second there might be fatal. He backed defiantly along
the rock until he gained its outer edge. But too late! The Indians
glided before him, now behind him; he was surrounded. He turned
around and around, with the ever-circling rifle whirling in the
faces of the baffled foe.
Once opposite the lane leading from the glade he changed his
tactics, and plunged with fierce impetuosity into the midst of the
painted throng. Then began a fearful conflict. The Indians fell
before the sweep of his powerful arms; but grappled with him from
the ground. He literally plowed his way through the struggling mass,
warding off an hundred vicious blows. Savage after savage he flung
off, until at last he had a clear path before him. Freedom lay
beyond that shiny path. Into it he bounded.
As he left the glade the plumed guard stepped from behind a tree
near the entrance of the path, and cast his tomahawk.
A white, glittering flash, it flew after the fleeing runner; its aim
was true.
Suddenly the moonlight path darkened in the runner's sight; he saw a
million flashing stars; a terrible pain assailed him; he sank
slowly, slowly down; then all was darkness.
Pages:
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215