At the mouth of the ravine lay three dead Indians.

The last of the six must have fled.
Ringan had sheathed his blade, and was looking at me with a queer smile on his face.
"Yon was a merry bout, Andrew," he said, and his voice sounded very far away.

Then he swayed into my arms, and I saw that his vest was dark with blood.
"What is it ?" I cried in wild fear.

"Are you hurt, Ringan ?" I laid him on a bed of moss, and opened his shirt.

In his breast was a gaping wound from which the bright blood was welling.
He lay with his eyes closed while I strove to stanch the flow.