Hubert was now within
a hundred yards, but the leading Indian was scarce a horse's length
behind. He had his tomahawk already in his hand, in readiness for
the fatal blow. Another twenty yards and he whirled it round his
head with a yell of exultation.
"Stoop, Hubert, stoop!" Maud cried in a loud, clear voice; and
mechanically, with the wild war-whoop behind ringing in his ears,
Hubert bent forward on to the horse's mane. He could feel the
breath of the Indian's horse against his legs, and his heart seemed
to stand still.
Maud and her rifle might have been taken for a statue, so immovable
and rigid did she stand; and then as the Indian's arm went back for
the blow, crack, and without a word or a cry the Indian fell back,
struck with the deadly little bullet in the center of the forehead.
Not so silently did Ethel's bullet do its work. A wild cry followed
the report: for an instant the Indian reeled in his saddle, and
then, steadying himself, turned his horse sharp round, and with his
companion galloped off.
[Illustration: HUBERT'S ESCAPE FROM THE INDIANS]
Hubert, as his horse passed through the gate and drew up, almost
fell from his seat; and it was with the greatest difficulty that he
staggered toward Maud, who had gone off in a dead faint as she saw
him ride on alone.
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