was perfect. The fools never suspected.
They stopped to make a camp, and still they did not know that a ring of
death was about them. They built their fires, and again the children
laughed and played by the coals. It was the last time.

The old chief was now wholly the wilderness slayer, the Indian of an
earlier time. His glittering eyes at times swept the circle of white
faces about him, but he did not see them, only that old massacre.

The narrative went on. Flying Cloud told each of his warriors to select
a victim, and fire true when he gave the word. He chose for himself a
large man who stood by one of the wagons, a man who had with him a woman
and a little boy and a little girl, and the little girl had long curls.

A groan burst from Plummer, and Harley saw his great figure gather as if
for a spring. But Harley, quick as lightning, seized the man in a
powerful grasp, and cried in his ear: "Not now, Mr. Plummer, not now,
for God's sake! Wait until the end!"

Harley felt the "King" quiver in his hands, and then cease to struggle.
Sylvia stood by, still as white as death and absolutely motionless. The
others, held by the old chief's song, did not see nor hear.

Flying Cloud's eyes were glittering with cruel triumph as he continued
his chant. The rifles were raised, the white fools yet suspected
nothing, but laughed and jested with each other as if there would be a
to-morrow.

Then he gave the word, and all the rifles were fired at once. The canon
was filled with smoke and the whistling of bullets. Most of the men in
the train were killed at once, and then the warriors sprang among those
who were left. Flying Cloud had shot the tall man by the wagon, and then
he sought the woman and the two children. He slew the woman and the
little boy, and he scalped them both. Then he sprang at the girl, but
the child of the Evil Spirit slipped among the bushes, and he could not
find her.

The old chief stopped a moment, and once more his glittering eyes swept
the circle of white faces, but saw them not. Then that fierce cry burst
again from Plummer. Suddenly he threw off Harley as if he had been a
child, and sprang through the ring of white faces into the circle of the
firelight. The tall, pale girl, still not saying a word, stood by, like
an avenging goddess.

"Murderer!" cried the "King." "It is not too late to punish you!"

He seized the old chief by the throat, but the white men threw
themselves upon him and tore him