As he walked toward the fire, he was suddenly grasped from behind, and again were his arms pinioned.  There was no escape for him this time.  Forced to his knees, he was placed facing half a dozen of the best marksmen of the tribe.  His shirt was torn open, exposing his hairy breast.  A signal was given, and the sharp reports of the rifles rang out in tune with the crackling timbers of the house, and falling to his face, Swanson gave a convulsive struggle and died as his own roof fell in; and a mass of blackened timbers marked the place where once stood Swanson’s ranche.

The end.