Some moments they spent searching the empty bed, then turned with renewed cries toward the other tent before which stood the doctor, waiting, grim, silent, savage.
For a single moment they paused, arrested by the silent figure, then with a whoop a drink-maddened brave sprang toward the tent, his rifle clubbed to strike.

Before he could deliver his blow the doctor, stepping swiftly to one side, swung his poplar club hard upon the uplifted arms, sent the rifle crashing to the ground and with a backward swing caught the astonished brave on the exposed head and dropped him to the earth as if dead.
"Take that, you dog!" he cried savagely.

"Come on, who's next ?" he shouted, swinging his club as a player might a baseball bat.
Before the next rush, however, help came in an unexpected form.

The tent flap was pushed back and at the doctor's side stood an apparition that checked the Indians' advance and stilled their cries.

It was the Indian boy, clad in a white night robe of Mandy's providing, his rifle in his hand, his face ghastly in the moonlight and his eyes burning like flames of light.