It was a contest of patience, and the white youth brought to
bear upon it both the red man's training and his own.
A half hour passed, and within that small area there was no sound but
the beat of the rain on the leaves and the sticky earth. Perhaps the
warrior thought he had been deceived; it was merely an illusion of the
night that he thought he saw; or if he had seen anyone the man was now
gone, creeping away through the undergrowth. He stirred among his own
bushes, raised up a little to see, and gave his enemy a passing glimpse
of his face. But it was enough; a rifle bullet struck him between the
eyes and the wilderness fighter lay dead in the forest.
Henry bestowed not a thought on the slain warrior, but, lifting up Paul
once more, continued on his wide curve, as if nothing had happened. No
one interrupted him again, and after a while he was parallel with the
line of fire. Then he passed around it and came to rocky ground, where
he laid Paul down and chafed his hands and face. The wounded boy opened
his eyes again, and, with returning strength, was now able to keep them
open.
"Henry!" he said in a vague whisper.
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