The dog was away chasing rabbits.
Whispering Winds glanced over her shoulder with a startled cry, which ended in a scream.
Not two yards behind her stood Jim Girty.
Hideous was his face in its triumphant ferocity.

He held a long knife in his hand, and, snarling like a mad wolf, he made a forward lunge.
Joe raised himself quickly; but almost before he could lift his hand in defense, the long blade was sheathed in his breast.
Slowly he sank back, his gray eyes contracting with the old steely flash.

The will to do was there, but the power was gone forever.
"Remember, Girty, murderer! I am Wetzel's friend," he cried, gazing at his slayer with unutterable scorn.
Then the gray eyes softened, and sought the blanched face of the stricken maiden.
"Winds," he whispered faintly.
She was as one frozen with horror.
The gray eyes gazed into hers with lingering tenderness; then the film of death came upon them.
The renegade raised his bloody knife, and bent over the prostrate form.
Whispering Winds threw herself upon Girty with the blind fury of a maddened lioness.

Cursing fiercely, he stabbed her once, twice, three times.

She fell across the body of her lover, and clasped it convulsively.
Girty gave one glance at his victims; deliberately wiped the gory knife on Wind's leggins, and, with another glance, hurried and fearful, around the glade, he plunged into the thicket.
An hour passed.