Lachlan had her in his arms, strange men with rifles in their hands were moving and talking all around her, and beside her Almayne was standing, his rifle levelled, its long black barrel resting on the rock in front of him.
She could not take her eyes from his face pressed against the rifle stock. It was the face of some fierce, fearless bird of prey—the face of a hunting hawk striking his victim. Moment after moment she waited. Would he never fire? At last she tore her eyes away.
Beyond the rock she saw men lying—brown, half-naked men, their limbs and their upturned faces fantastically streaked and ringed with paint, feathers of many colours in their heads—Indians, Appalaches, some eight or ten of them, sprawled in grotesque attitudes on the ground. Far up the slope, apparently well beyond rifle range, the main body of Appalaches were sitting their ponies, gesticulating, milling excitedly to and fro. A little apart from them, erect on his white horse, she saw the tall chief with the pink flamingo headdress. He sat facing the others, his back turned to the river. Evidently he was haranguing his followers, urging them to the attack, and as he spoke he flourished his long lance, waving it above his head.
Suddenly he wheeled his horse, flung his lance high in triumph and caught it as it fell. A moment he waited motionless, pointing down the slope, his bright plumes shining in the sunlight—horse and rider poised for the charge.
Beside Jolie, Almayne's rifle cracked. The chief
