It was one chance in a thousand. Throwing himself on
the ground, he waited. "Crack!" It was the rifle of an Indian, not
fifty feet away and coming nearer. The stealthy footfalls told
Elmer that his foe was heading straight for the river bank and that
he was in the Ute's path. Then he could hear the Indian's deep
breathing. Detection was inevitable.
One last thing remained to be done--to kill the Indian and make a
dash forward down the river bank. And he must act before his foe
discovered him. Elmer's revolver flashed fire and he saw his foe of
the red and yellow face bound into the air and then topple forward
with a cry of anguish.
The boy turned, but too late. Directly in front he heard the sudden
shouts of other Indians. The river at his back! Flight down its
cement-like bank was impossible. He might plunge forward and pray
that the water was beneath.
The death cry of the man he had shot and the echoing yells of the
Indians behind him had been taken up by others. He knew the
determined savages were making a final rush. Indian cries seemed to
come from the very ground at his feet.
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