holding the tomahawk. He gazed at
the shadow intently. He believed that he could divine his foe's
triumphant thoughts.

The south wind freshened a little, and came to Henry Ware poignant with
the odors of blossom and flower. The brook murmured a quiet song in his
ears. The brilliant sunshine flashed alike over grass and water. It was
a beautiful world, and never had he been more loth to leave it. He
wondered how long it would be until the blow fell. He knew that the
warrior, according to the custom of his race, would prolong his triumph
and exult a little before he struck.

Given a chance with his rifle, Henry would have asked no other favor.
Just that one little gift from fortune! The clutch of his fingers on the
stock tightened, and the involuntary motion sent a new thought through
him. The rifle lay unmoved across his shoulder, its muzzle pointing
upward. Before him in the water the shadow still lay, unchanged, beside
his own. He kept his eyes upon it, marking a spot in the center of the
forehead, while the hand that grasped the rifle crept up imperceptibly
toward the hammer and the trigger. A half minute passed. The warrior
still lingered over his coming triumph. The boy's brown fingers rested
against the hammer of the rifle.

Hope had come suddenly, but Henry Ware made no sign. He blew a bubble or
two in the water, and while he seemed to watch them break, the muzzle of
the rifle shifted gently, until he was sure that it bore directly upon
the spot in the forehead that he had marked on the shadow in the water.

The last bubble broke, and then Henry seemed to himself to put all his
strength into the hand and wrist that held the rifle. His forefinger
grasped the hammer. It flew back with a sharp click. The next instant,
so quickly that time scarcely divided the two movements, he pulled the
trigger and fired.

CHAPTER IX

THE GATHERING OF THE FIVE

As the report of his shot sped in echoes through the forest, Henry Ware
sprang to his feet and stood there for a little space, his knees weak
under him, and drops of perspiration thick on his face. The rifle was
clenched in his hands, and a light smoke came from the muzzle.

Thus he stood, not yet willing to turn around and see, but when the last
echo of the shot was gone there was no sound. The wind had ceased to
blow. Not a leaf, not a blade of grass stirred. He was affected as he
had never been in battle, because he knew that a man whose shadow alone
he