Every part of him responded to the call.

The rifle sprang to his shoulder and before the passing spot of brown was gone, a stream of fire spurted from its slender muzzle, and its sharp cracking report like the lashing of a whip was blended with the long-drawn howl, so terrible in its note, that is the death cry of a savage.
The bullet had scarcely left his gun before he fell back almost flat, and the answering shot sped over his head.

It was for this that he sank down, and before the second shot died he sprang to his feet and rushed forward, drawing his tomahawk and uttering a shout that rolled away in fierce echoes through the forest.
He knew that his enemies were but two; in his eccentric course through the forest he had passed directly over their trail, and he had read the signs with an infallible eye.

Now one was dead and the other like himself had an unloaded gun.

The rest of his deed would be a mere matter of detail.
The second savage uttered his war cry and sprang forward from the bushes.