his head slowly bowing and his body swaying perceptibly. Then he plunged forward like
a log, his face striking the sand. He never moved again. He was dead even before he
struck the ground.
Blank silence followed this tragic denouement. Wingenund, a cruel and relentless
Indian, but never a traitor, pointed to the small bloody hole in the middle of Miller's
forehead, and then nodded his head solemnly. The wondering Indians stood aghast.
Then with loud yells the braves ran to the cornfield; they searched the laurel bushes.
But they only discovered several moccasin prints in the sand, and a puff of white smoke
wafting away upon the summer breeze.
