The White Squaw

Warren stood grating his teeth in impotent rage.

He saw that he had fallen into a trap laid for him by Crookleg.

Nelatu stirred not an inch.

Again young Rody pronounced his name.

“Nelatu!”

“Yes, Nelatu – the brother of Sansuta! Does not the sight of me turn you into stone? Is your heart so hardened that you do not tremble?”

Warren gave a short, mocking laugh.

“Go away from here,” he said; “I owe no account of my actions to any one.”

“Yes, you owe an account of them to that Great Spirit who is alike your God and mine.”

“Pah! stand aside, I say.”

“My arm will brain you if you move or step! Nelatu is a chief, and must be heard!”

“Well, then, go on.”

“You once said you were my friend. Nelatu tears your friendship from his breast and casts it to the wind! You are an assassin – a thief! What answer do you make?”

“I make none.”

“You are right; nothing can be said to palliate the crime of falsehood, murder, and robbery! Come along with me.”

“Indeed! Where to?”

“To our chief – to Wacora.”

“A prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“And who is to take me?”

“I will.”

“You!” retorted Rody, with a sneer.

“Yes; your life was in my hands but a minute ago. You live only because I would not kill you in my sister’s presence. Your very slave has proved false to you. You are in my power; Wacora shall pass sentence on you, and that sentence will be death.”

With a bound Warren rushed at Nelatu, who, suddenly dropping his rifle, grappled with him.

A terrible struggle ensued.

The young men were about equally matched in size and strength, while each knew that it was a contest for life or death.

Warren, by his unexpected onset, had at first some advantage over his antagonist; but the Indian speedily recovered it by his great power of endurance.

All feeling of pity had vanished from his breast. He had intended to take him a prisoner; he would now kill him.

He made several unsuccessful efforts to draw his tomahawk; whilst Warren, inspired by the certainty that death would be the result, strove to his utmost to prevent him from wielding the weapon.

Long did they continue the struggle without either speaking a word. Their heavy breathing, as they rolled over and over on the grass, was the only audible sound.

Nelatu at length succeeded in getting his antagonist under him, and with one arm strove to hold him, whilst with the other he groped for his tomahawk.

At this moment Warren made a superhuman effort, threw the Indian off, and, with the speed of lightning, snatched his rifle from the ground.

Nelatu had stumbled as he was thrown off, and lay sprawling upon the earth.

Another instant and he would have had a bullet through his body.

Was it an echo that answered the cocking of the rifle held in Rody’s hand?

That was the last thought that crossed Warren Rody’s mind.

The next moment he was a corpse.

A bullet had pierced his brain!

It came from Maracota’s gun, who had arrived upon the ground at the moment of Nelatu’s fall.

Before either of the two Indians could speak a word, a piercing cry echoed in upon their ears; a girl came gliding through the bushes, and flung herself prostrate over the body.

It was Sansuta!

The air was filled with her lamentations as she kissed the cold forehead of Warren Rody, and with a thousand endearing terms endeavoured to recall him to life.

Nelatu approached and gently raised her from the ground.

He was about to address her, but he started back in horror.

Her wild, starting eyes, with that unmeaning smile upon her lips, told the sad tale.

Her reason had departed.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Struggle in the Stockade

On that same night the Indians, led by Wacora, stormed the stockade upon the hill.

The combat proved long and desperate, but the place was at length taken.