The long blade, dripping with Deering's blood, pointed toward the hilltop.
"Look thar! See 'em! Thar's yer friends!" cried Wetzel.
On the dead branches of trees standing far above the hilltop, were many great, dark birds.

They sat motionless as if waiting.
"Buzzards! Buzzards!" hissed Wetzel.
Girty's ghastly face became an awful thing to look upon.

No living countenance ever before expressed such fear, such horror, such agony.

He foamed at the mouth, he struggled, he writhed.

With a terrible fascination he watched that quivering, dripping blade, now poised high.
Wetzel's arm swung with the speed of a shooting star.