Again a scream rends the air, and yet another, coming
this time from the rear. Rosalind's palpitating heart prevents her from
glancing about to learn the cause. She knows she has shot the Indian in
the right arm, but she does not know, and will never know, that her
opportune shot has saved herself and her steed from being fired at from
behind as well as in front. For when the Indian's arm was struck, it
directed the contents of his rifle away from the point he aimed at. He
shot half a second after Rosalind's fire, and killed his chief
Feathertop, who was lurking in the background, grinning horribly at his
good fortune in taking aim at the back of the paleface and her flying
steed.
Over the body of the dead Indian Golightly springs, paying no heed to
the savage Redskin who stands aside from the trampling hoofs with his
right arm hanging broken at his side. He is helpless, but he may yet do
damage to Rosalind's cause. She lifts her rifle in passing him, and aims
once more at his retreating form. He springs into the air, and, without
a groan or cry, meets his death.
Rosalind has cleared her path from further danger. Ride swiftly though
she does, no lurking forms are seen, no gliding figures block her way.
But the danger she has gone through has taken all her strength from her.
She leans her cheek on Golightly's sympathetic head and sobs out her
gratitude to him.
When a foam-flecked steed dashed up to the first house in the village
there was great commotion.
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