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Several guns banged and the bullets pattered into the logs. There was no sign of life in the valley beyond this scattering volley, however. Ward and the girl were gone. The dead Indian and dog were partly in view among the weeds beside the lick-block. The gown of the dead woman made a little patch of melancholy color against the green of the grass and ranker ground growth.
Dicks was finishing the first stanza as he entered the cabin. He broke off sharply to rebuke the dog. Soon he came out with a bag. At about a hundred yards from the cabin, and farther up the valley than any of them, was the lick-block. Dicks was walking toward this. Several horses broke from the growth across the valley and ran toward the cabins.
We started to slide down the bank, when a terrible tragedy took place before our eyes. As Dicks was emptying the salt on to the lick-block the horses sprang back and bolted in alarm, and an Indian's topknot, decorated with wild-turkey feathers, bobbed up from behind the block. Dicks seemed to be paralyzed.
Patricia Dale was walking composedly toward her father, her slim hands holding up her belts. She winced as she passed the lick-block and got a glimpse of the dead savage and the dead dog. Then her gaze remained steady on her father's calm face. Black Hoof said something, but there was a pounding in my ears which prevented me from hearing it.
The third cabin, the one occupied by the Dales, burst into flames as I was being yanked into the first fringe of bushes. The valley was now brightly lighted, and my last view of it included the lick-block. One phase of a successful Indian raid was missing; there were no warriors madly dancing about the burning homes.
High among the fleecy cloud-bundles were dark specks which we knew to be turkey-buzzards, already attracted by the dead. For some time the only sign of the enemy's presence was when three horses galloped down the valley, running from the savages in the edge of the woods. As the animals drew near the cabins and showed an inclination to visit the lick-block a volley from the Indians sent one down.
Then again the Englishman was calling us. I went forward. "Hear what I say?" he cried. I answered that we could. "Ericus Dale says for us to stop shooting or he can't save us," he informed us. "He can't save himself!" I yelled back. "He thinks he can save all of us." "He couldn't save the man at the lick-block," I reminded. "Aye. There's sorry truth in that." "This valley's a trap.
And not a savage had shown himself with the exception of the one who had counted coup at the lick-block. This fellow was still in sight and extremely busy. With our door ajar we watched the ghastly struggle between the faithful mongrel and the assassin. The Indian had lost his ax but had managed to draw his knife. The dog's teeth were buried in his throat before he could get his blade loose.
John Ward, the white Indian, led him and his daughter into it," I shouted. "God help and pity us!" he groaned. Then more calmly, "Ward came back from the woods this morning and said there were no signs of Indians." "He met them and talked with them, and planned how they should surprise you people. The warrior at the lick-block knew Dicks would discover him, so he showed himself and made his kill."
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