But not for some minutes did Bennett think thus. He could barely recover his own breath at first. He was chilled through and through by the icy water. His clothing clung to him like lead. He had lost most of his weapons during his struggle in the river; but his bowie and a pistol remained--the latter, of course, useless in its present condition. His ammunition was saturated, too. He had but his knife to depend on, was he attacked. And at that thought the bandit chief started to life! Attacked, indeed! There was a relentless enemy on his trail. He, too, knew that it had come to the final trial of strength between he and the Border King. His death, or William F. Cody’s, must mark this island as a tragic spot forever. The great scout, he knew, would never give up while life remained in his body. As for Bennett himself, he was pushed now to the last extremity. He was bereft of all his associates. He had seen them killed one by one, by fate, or by the relentless arm of Buffalo Bill. He had lost caste with the Sioux, over whom he had obtained so great an influence during the past few months. And all for what? For this White Antelope--a half-breed girl--a woman who hated him, and who considered herself, though of mixed blood, too good for him. He gnashed his teeth in rage as he thought of this, and his rage somewhat aroused him. He crawled to the girl and shook her. Her body was limp--and oh, so cold! It well-nigh frightened Bennett to touch her. Could it be that she was already dead? He tore open the doeskin blouse that draped the upper part of her person and bared her bosom. His hand sought her heart and felt a timid flutter there. She was still alive! Yet, how to warm that spark of life into full flame? He had nothing in which to wrap her; his own clothing was saturated. But in his hunting-shirt he carried a carefully stoppered bottle, and in this receptacle were several sulfur matches. These were as precious as gold to him now. He crept about the little plateau of the island, gathering twigs and dry branches and rubbish. This light stuff he heaped in a pile, and then, before he dared light the pyre, he found and broke up larger wood and made ready a roaring heap which, a few moments after he touched his match to it, blazed several feet into the air. The sun was going down, and this bonfire warded off the coming chill of night. He basked in the heat himself, feeling grateful for every leaping, scorching flame. He dragged the girl within the radiance of the fire and chafed her hands and her forehead, and removed her torn moccasins and held her small, beautifully formed feet to the fire. These ministrations he performed with some little tenderness; but, although the girl sighed and her lips parted, and her chilled body seemed to respond to the warmth of the fire, she did not open her eyes.