The lad turned to release the poor prisoner, when he
started back with a cry of fear. Kate lay bathed in a pool of
blood--dead. The renegade, fearing she might be rescued, had
murdered her, and then fled from the cabin.
Almost blinded by horror, and staggering with weakness, Joe turned
to leave the cabin. Realizing that he was seriously, perhaps
dangerously, wounded he wisely thought he must not leave the place
without weapons. He had marked the pegs where the renegade's rifle
hung, and had been careful to keep between that and his enemies. He
took down the gun and horns, which were attached to it, and, with
one last shuddering glance at poor Kate, left the place.
He was conscious of a queer lightness in his head, but he suffered
no pain. His garments were dripping with blood. He did not know how
much of it was his, or the Indian's. Instinct rather than sight was
his guide. He grew weaker and weaker; his head began to whirl, yet
he kept on, knowing that life and freedom were his if he found
Whispering Winds. He gained the top of the ridge; his eyes were
blurred, his strength gone. He called aloud, and then plunged
forward on his face. He heard dimly, as though the sound were afar
off, the whine of a dog. He felt something soft and wet on his face.
Then consciousness left him.
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