The amazement of Ned Clinton was no greater than that of Captain Bagley and the Indians over the sudden death of Worrell. For one moment the comrades of the deceased stood transfixed, staring at the inanimate form stretched on the ground before them. Then the Iroquois gave out their war whoop, and sprang to the cover of the nearest undergrowth. This brought them much nearer the youth than was pleasant. The thought struck him that these warriors would believe the one who fired the fatal shot was near by, and begin a search which must result in revealing Clinton himself. The precautionary action of the redmen served to recall Captain Bagley to his own situation, and he raised his gaze from the prostrate figure, and looked affrightedly around him.

"It was that Mohawk who fired that shot!" he exclaimed, making a hurried rush for the same cover that was sheltering the half dozen Iroquois.

As fate would have it, he crouched down in the undergrowth so close to Ned Clinton that the latter believed discovery was inevitable. He was well hidden, however, and flattened out until it seemed he must force himself into the ground, while he feared if the Tory escaped seeing him, he would learn of his presence from the throbbing of his heart. But there was one thing in favor of the youth. The shot—by whomsoever fired—had come from exactly the opposite direction, a fact which was perceptible to the Iroquois themselves even if unnoticed by the young man at the time.

Perfect stillness succeeded the report, and when some ten minutes passed, the warriors appeared to suspect their inaction would permit the daring Mohawk to escape, when there was a chance to secure his scalp. At the end of the time mentioned, Ned, from his concealment, caught a glimpse of two warriors stealing along the edge of the open space. Their backs were toward him, thus showing they were pursuing an opposite direction in quest of the one who had slain their leader. Shortly after he detected others, and last of all went Captain Bagley himself, he having changed from a leader to a follower. Thus in a brief time Ned found himself alone, with no one in sight excepting the inanimate form, now stark and stiff, telling its impressive story of a miscreant cut down in the middle of his wicked career.

"I wonder whether it was Lena-Wingo who did that," mused the youth, raising his head and peering through the undergrowth at the form. "Captain Bagley believed so, and I guess he was right, for I can't think of any one else who would do it."

After what had taken place, Ned was in doubt as to what his own course should be. From the conversation which he overheard between Worrell and Bagley, he knew that none of the survivors was aware of the location of the cavern, so that the fugitives might stay within it in safety. The youth concluded he had seen enough to carry back to his friends. He, therefore, cautiously retreated from the hiding-place, not wishing to encounter any of the Indians, who could be at no great distance, and desirous, too, of avoiding another sight of the dead man. It took but a short time to reach the tree, where he had first seen the one who had attempted to betray them, and who had come near succeeding, too, in the effort.

"I don't know that anything is to be gained by staying here, and I will go back to where I left Jo and Rosa, and tell them they may take refuge in the cavern without any danger or disturb—"

At that instant he heard a stealthy movement behind him, and he was in dread of a collision with some of the Iroquois, who seemed to be almost everywhere in the forest and on the mountain. As he wheeled about, there was the redman, painted and with gun in his grasp; but it was the redman whom, of all others, he was anxious to see, being no other than Lena-Wingo, the scout.

"Thank the Lord!" was the fervent exclamation of the youth, as he rushed toward the Mohawk and caught his hand. "Where have you been so long?"

Lena-Wingo took the proffered hand and shook it warmly, for he held the youth in the highest estimation, as he had shown on more than one occasion. At the same time, he put on his usual broad grin, and replied, in his broken way:"Lena-Wingo been watching you. Seen you hide in bushes when Iroquois come, and he watch."

"That was you, then, who picked off Worrell?"

"Who Worrell?" demanded the Mohawk, sharply.

"Why, that chap that was shot while talking to Captain Bagley."

"His name not Worrell," said Lena-Wingo. "He Dick Evans."

"No!" gasped Ned, in return.

"That he—Lena-Wingo look good while for him—found him—shoot him—won't kill any more women and babies."

And who was Dick Evans, that the mention of his name should cause so much emotion on the part of those who heard it pronounced? He was one of the most infamous wretches produced by the Revolutionary war. He had been heard of in Wyoming valley for years before the invasion of the Tories and Indians, and was looked upon as an outlaw who was compelled to live in the woods to escape the penalty of his innumerable crimes against civilization. There was no deed too dark for him to perpetrate. When the Revolution broke out he turned against the land that gave him birth, and committed atrocities that no other Tory or Indian had exceeded. It was well known that he had slain women and children in more than one instance, and when he held the power no one expected mercy at his hands. He was one of the most wicked of beings and more than deserved the death which came to him with the bullet aimed and fired by the Mohawk.

The latter had declared to more than one person that he would shoot him like a dog at the first opportunity. With the defiant nature of his race, he sent the man himself word by a Seneca Indian that he was looking for him, and intended to keep it up until able to draw a bead on him. Evans sent word back in reply, that he was also looking for the Mohawk, and dared him to shoot him if he could. The only palliating characteristic of the despicable wretch was his bravery, and he really did do his utmost to gain a shot at the Indian who had threatened him. But he engaged in a game in which his antagonist was his superior, and had paid the penalty.

The body was left where it fell, for another of the peculiarities of Lena-Wingo was that, for a number of years, he had refused to take the scalp of his fallen foe. At the time the Mohawk shot Evans, he suspected he was leading the party in search of the fugitives in the mountain; but the scout was so far removed from the two men while they were talking, that he failed to gain the import of their words. He therefore knew nothing of the scheme which had been so skillfully laid for entrapping the three whites. When Ned came to tell him the story, the Indian was astonished. He had not dreamt of any such thing, for he supposed that his friends would await him where he told them to stay and not suffer themselves to be persuaded to disobey him. He showed that he was displeased, but he said little, and the feeling was not deep. Ned Clinton generously assumed all the blame himself, and, like the lightning-rod, it did not take him long to draw the lightning from the wrathful cloud, so that all became serene again.