Suddenly his, face changed; the light flashed into his eyes. He
raised his head, and he laid his gun to his shoulder.

Out upon the roof of the cabin, ringed as it was with fire, there
sprang a man of gigantic aspect, daubed and tattooed in vermilion,
his hair braided in scarlet, and one white tuft conspicuous in the
black. He stood upon the roof, glaring wildly round him as if
meditating a spring. Doubtless the smoke and fire shielded him in
some sort from observation. Had not there been one relentless foe
vowed to his destruction, he might in all probability have leaped
the ring of flame and escaped with his life.

But Charles had covered him with his gun. The chieftain saw the
gleaming barrel, and paused irresolute. Charles's voice rose clear
above the surrounding din.

"Murderer, tyrant, tormentor of helpless women and babes, the white
man's God doth war against thee. The hour of thy death has come. As
thou hast done unto others, so shall it be done unto thee."

Then the sharp report of the rifle sounded, and the chief bounded
into the air and fell back helpless. He was not dead--his yells of
rage and fear told that--but he was helpless. His thigh was
shattered. He lay upon the roof of the blazing cabin unable to move
hand or foot, and Charles stood by like a grim sentinel till the
frail building collapsed into a burning mass; then with a fierce
gesture he stirred the ashes with the butt of his rifle, saying
beneath his breath: