A pair of fine cavalry boots, stolen from some unfortunate officer, were slung across his shoulders, and he seemed burdened down with all sorts of plunder. Mason waited to see no more. The wrenching at his finger ceased, the man uttered a curse, and began to draw his knife. Then the whole horrible truth burst upon the boy's mind. Under the impulse of the moment he tightened his clasp, and actually pulled himself to his feet by means of the renegade, and after this had been accomplished, released his hold. The matter did not rest here. Amazed at having the dead come to life in such an unexpected manner, as it seemed, the renegade uttered a cry and started back. Custer's revolver was still held in the boy's right hand, just as it had been when he had fallen to the earth. Whether a single load remained or not he could not tell, but quickly pulling up the hammer he raised the weapon. When the robber of the dead, base craven that he was, saw this movement, he flung out his hands in an involuntary appeal for mercy, but the boy, after passing through such a bitter, bloody experience, could feel no pity for such as he. The hammer fell, the crack came, and the bullet did its mission of retributive justice. "My God! I'm done for. Curses on the young hound," half howled the renegade, reeling wildly in the effort to keep his feet, and at length plunging to the ground, where he lay covered with plunder, waiting for some other robber to relieve him as he had despoiled others. Mason sank to the ground immediately, and it was not until several moments had passed by that he ventured to raise his head and look around. Not an object was stirring near him. If the marauders of the dead had noticed the shot at all, they had taken it for granted that it was fired by one of their number at a wounded cavalryman, and the shout given by the victim of the bullet went far to corroborate this idea. As he looked, Mason saw one of those shadowy forms skulking about and bending over the dead. Fearful lest he should meet with one such and be murdered for want of weapons, he crawled over to where the renegade lay and secured his revolver. Not content with this, he quietly proceeded to reload the empty chambers of the one he had taken from the holsters of Custer's saddle. When this was done, he felt content, and arose to his feet. Although he could see in the immediate vicinity, all appeared dark and gloomy a hundred yards away, and the bluffs could only be distinguished because they were outlined against the star-bedecked sky after the manner of a silhouette. Which way to go was a puzzler. Beyond the ravine he could hear the murmur of the river, and knew that on the other shore was the camp of the Sioux. Once clear of this slaughter-pen and his ideas would flow more naturally, for it was impossible to think calmly while the mutilated bodies of friends lay around on every side. To say a thing was to do it with Custer's boy friend.