At the first shake the head of the man fell forward, as if he were a wooden image knocked out of poise.
The singularity of the move struck Mickey, who abruptly ceased his jests, raised the drooping head, and stooped down and peered into it.
One quick, searching glance told the terrible truth.
_"Be the howly powers, but he's dead!"_ gasped the horrified Irishman, starting back, and then stooping still lower, and hurriedly examining him.
"What killed him ?" asked the terrified Fred, gazing upon the limp figure.
"Lone Wolf, the haythen blackguard.

See here," added Mickey, in a stern voice, as he wheeled about and faced his young friend, "you told me you had your gun pinted at that spalpeen; now it's meself that wants to know why in blazes you did n't pull the trigger ?" "He hadn't hurt me, Mickey, and I did n't know that he had been doing anything of this kind.

Would you have shot him, in my place ?" The Irishman shook his head.

It looked too cowardly to send a man, even though he were an Indian, out of the world without an instant's warning.
"Well, Thompson is done for, that's dead sure, and we'll have to give him a dacent burial.

Whisht, there! did ye not hear somethin' ?" Footsteps were heard very distinctly upon the leaves, and the two shrank back in the shadow of the wood and awaited their approach, for they were evidently coming that way.