After about an hour had been spent by the savages in their fiendish sport, the firing became suddenly suspended. I could not tell why; and sought for an explanation by watching the movements of the marksmen. Had they exhausted their ammunition? This was the idea that came uppermost. The chiefs had turned face to face, and were again engaged in some earnest deliberation. The subject of their talk was made known by their gesticulations. They were pointing towards Sure-shot, who still lay, as I have described, flat upon his face. Wingrove was no longer there; nor yet Su-wa-nee! Where could they have gone? I had seen both but the moment before! Had she unbound, and rescued him? Was it about them that the savages were in consultation? No; the result proved not. It was the deserter who was the object of their attention--as was soon made manifest by their movements. Half a dozen warriors were seen separating from the group and running up to the spot where Sure-shot lay. Stooping around him, they undid his fastenings; and then, having, raised him to his feet, commenced dragging him towards the crowd of marksmen. The terrified man made no resistance. It would have been idle. There was a brawny savage on each side, grasping him by the wrist; and three or four behind pushing him forward at a run. His long hair streaming loosely, strengthened the expression of despair that was depicted upon his countenance. No doubt he deemed it his last hour. Whether could they be dragging him? Whither but to death? This was my own belief--at first; but in a few minutes I had reason to change it. For a short while, Sure-shot was encircled by the dusky forms, and I saw him not--or only the crown of his head--conspicuous by its yellow hue among the darker _chevelures_ of the Indians. What were they doing to him? I could not guess; but they appeared to be offering him no further violence. After a time, the group scattered from around him, and the ex-rifleman was again uncovered to my view. With some surprise, I perceived that the expression of his countenance had undergone a total change. It was no longer that of terror--much less of despair. On the contrary, there was a certain air of confidence visible both in his look and manner--as if something had been said, or done to him, that had given him satisfaction! I was further surprised at perceiving that he had a gun in his hands--his own rifle--and that he was in the act of loading the piece! My surprise changed to indignation as I saw him step forward to the line, and stand facing me--evidently with the intention to fire! "Cowardly traitor! he has accepted life upon some base condition. Jeph Bigelow! Sure-shot! whom I thought true as steel! I would not have believed it." Such was the reflection, to which my gag prevented me from giving utterance. In reality, I felt astonished at the behaviour of the old ranger. I believed him a better man; but the dread of death is a powerful test to