Seeing that the fallen figure remained quite motionless he stepped forward, drawing his knife as he came.

He was a young brave, quick and eager in his movements, and came nimbly up the path to gain his coveted trophy, the paleface's scalp.
Suddenly Joe sat up, raised his rifle quickly as thought, and fired point-blank at the Indian.
But he missed.
The redskin stopped aghast when he saw the lad thus seemingly come back to life.

Then, realizing that Joe's aim had been futile, he bounded forward, brandishing his knife, and uttering infuriated yells.
Joe rose to his feet with rifle swung high above his head.
When the savage was within twenty feet, so near that his dark face, swollen with fierce passion, could be plainly discerned, a peculiar whistling noise sounded over Joe's shoulder.

It was accompanied, rather than followed, by a clear, ringing rifleshot.
The Indian stopped as if he had encountered a heavy shock from a tree or stone barring his way.

Clutching at his breast, he uttered a weird cry, and sank slowly on the grass.
Joe ran forward to bend over the prostrate figure.