The Christians eyed him with unspoken scorn.
"My God! My God! It is worse than I thought!" moaned Heckewelder.
"Utter ruin! Murder! Murder!" In the momentary silence which followed his outburst, a tiny cloud of blue-white smoke came from the ferns overhanging a cliff.
Crack! All heard the shot of a rifle; all noticed the difference between its clear, ringing intonation and the loud reports of the other two.
All distinctly heard the zip of a bullet as it whistled over their heads.
All?
No, not all.

One did not hear that speeding bullet.

He who was the central figure in this tragic scene, he who had doomed the Christians might have seen that tiny puff of smoke which heralded his own doom, but before the ringing report could reach his ears a small blue hole appeared, as if by magic, over his left eye, and pulse, and sense, and life had fled forever.
Half King, great, cruel chieftain, stood still for an instant as if he had been an image of stone; his haughty head lost its erect poise, the fierceness seemed to fade from his dark face, his proud plume waved gracefully as he swayed to and fro, and then fell before the Christians, inert and lifeless.
No one moved; it was as if no one breathed.

The superstitious savages awaited fearfully another rifle shot; another lightning stroke, another visitation from the paleface's God.
But Jim Girty, with a cunning born of his terrible fear, had recognized the ring of that rifle.

He had felt the zip of a bullet which could just as readily have found his brain as Half King's.