His cry of astonishment
and fear lasted longer than did the pistol report, and Pawnee Brown
swung around to confront him.

"Yellow Elk!" came from his lips, when whizz! the tomahawk left the
redskin's hand and came swirling through the air directly for his head.
He dropped like lightning, and the keen blade sank deeply into the tree
behind him.

"Wough!" grunted the Indian when he saw how he had missed his mark. Then
he leveled the pistol in his left hand at Pawnee Brown's head.

The great scout felt his position was still a trying one. His own
shooter, though still in hand, was empty. He pointed it and started to
back away to the tree behind him.

"Stop, or I kill!" commanded Yellow Elk, but instead of complying, the
scout took a flying leap to a safe shelter. Seeing this, Yellow Elk also
lost no time in getting behind cover.

With the pistol loaded once more the boomer felt safer. He listened
intently for some movement upon the part of his enemy, but none came.
The Indian is a great hand at playing a waiting game and Yellow Elk was
no exception to this rule.

"Well, if you can wait, so can I," thought Pawnee Brown and settled
down with eyes and ears on the alert. He thought of Nellie Winthrop and
of Rasco, and wondered what had become of uncle and niece. He did not
want to wait, feeling it was important to get back to the boomers' camp,
but there was no help for it, and he remained where he was.

Fifteen minutes went by and no sound broke the stillness saving that of
the water in the brook as it flowed down over a series of rocks. Then
came the faint crack of a single dry twig over upon his left. He turned
around and blazed away in that direction.

A fierce but suppressed exclamation in the Indian tongue followed,
showing that Yellow Elk had been hit. How serious the Indian chief was
injured there was no telling. It might be only a flesh wound, it might
have been fatal and Yellow Elk might have died without further sound,
and then again it might be only a ruse. Again Pawnee Brown paused to
listen.

Thus another quarter of an hour was wasted. It must be confessed that
the great scout's nerves were strung to the topmost tension. At any
moment a shot might come which would end his life. It was ten times more
trying than to stand up in line of battle, for the enemy could not be
seen.

Again came the crack of a twig, but very faint, showing that the sound
came from a distance. There followed a faint splash, so