The father might also wait until the boy should pass out of range.  Still, there was the possibility of his proceeding directly up to the spot where the savage lurked, thus keeping in range all the while.  Then the attempted rescue would have to be deferred until the child was in the hands of the savage.  These considerations, passing through Richter’s brain much more rapidly than we have narrated them, decided him to abandon both plans, and to resort to what, beyond question, was a most desperate expedient.

The Indian held the bell in his left hand.  It was suspended by the string which had clasped the neck of the goat, and, as it swayed gently back and forth, this string slowly twisted and untwisted itself, the bell, of course, turning back and forth.  The father determined to slay the Indian and save his son by shooting this bell!

It is not necessary to describe the shape and make of the common cow-bell in general use throughout our country; but it is necessary that the reader should bear them in mind in order to understand the manner in which the missionary proposed to accomplish this result.  His plan was to strike the bell when in the proper position, and glance the bullet into the head of the savage!

The desperate nature of this expedient will be seen at once.  Should the gun be discharged when the flat side of the bell was turned toward him, the ball would pass through, and most probably kill his child without endangering the life of the Indian.  If it struck the narrow side, it accomplished neither harm nor good; while, if fired at the precise moment, and still aimed but an inch too low, the bell would most likely be perforated.  Consequently, it was requisite that the rifle be discharged at the precise instant of time when the signal brass was in the correct position, and that the aim should be infallibly true.

All this Richter realized only too painfully; but, uttering an inward prayer, he raised his rifle with a nerve that knew no faltering or fear, holding it pointed until the critical moment should arrive.  That moment would be when the string was wound up, and was turning, to unwind.  Then, as it was almost stationary, he fired.

No sound or outcry betrayed the result; but, clubbing his rifle, the father bounded forward, over the trees, to the spot where the Indian was crouching.  There he saw him in his death-struggle upon the ground the bell still held fast in his hand.  In that critical moment, Harvey Richter could not forbear glancing at it.  Its top was indented, and sprinkled with white by the glancing passage of the lead.  The blood, oozing down the face of the savage, plainly showed how unerringly true had been the aim.

Something in the upward look of the dying man startled the missionary.

“Harvey Richter—­don’t you know me?” he gasped.

[Illustration:  “Harvey Richter—­don’t you know me?” he gasped.]

“I know you as a man who has sought to do me a wrong that only a fiend could have perpetrated.  Great Heaven!  Can it be?  Is this you, Brazey Davis?”