It seemed that it must always be the abode of dead or dying things.
The wet grass, forty yards away, moved a little, and between the boughs appeared the segment of a hideous dark face, the painted brow, the savage black eyes, and the hooked nose of the Mohawk.

Only Henry saw it, but with fierce joy-the tortures at Wyoming leaped up before him-he fired at the painted brow.

The Mohawk uttered his death cry and fell back with a splash into the mud and water of the swamp.

A half dozen bullets were instantly fired at the base of the smoke that came from Henry's rifle, but the youth and his comrades lay close and were unharmed.

Shif'less Sol and Tom were quick enough to catch glimpses of brown forms, at which they fired, and the cries coming back told that they had hit.
"That's something," said Henry.