He took down the gun and horns, which were attached to it, and, with one last shuddering glance at poor Kate, left the place.
He was conscious of a queer lightness in his head, but he suffered no pain.

His garments were dripping with blood.

He did not know how much of it was his, or the Indian's.

Instinct rather than sight was his guide.

He grew weaker and weaker; his head began to whirl, yet he kept on, knowing that life and freedom were his if he found Whispering Winds.