Read Blazing Arrow: A Tale of the Frontier Page 20


  CHAPTER XX.

  ACROSS THE GORGE.

  "Heavens, Larry, you have killed him!" was the horrified exclamation ofWharton Edwards.

  "Be easy now," coolly replied his companion, putting down the weapon andresuming the paddle; "he isn't hurt."

  "Didn't you aim at him?" asked his friend, who, looking back, saw nosigns of injury on the part of the Shawanoe.

  "Not so loud," whispered Larry; "he might hear you."

  The youth drove the canoe farther out into the lake, but all the time hekept his head turned so as to see every movement of the Indian.

  Larry had not aimed at him; nothing in the world would have induced himto shoot the poor, demented creature; but he meant to give him a goodscare, and he succeeded.

  Instead of throwing the stone in his hand he dropped it at his feet,whirled about, and ran for the trees. As he did so he dodged from sideto side like a Digger Indian when trying to distract the aim of hisenemy.

  "That's better than killing him," commented Wharton, with a sigh; "hethinks you intended that shot for him, and he doesn't mean to give us asecond chance."

  "But he is taking a second one himself. Look out!"

  Wharton saw a shadowy something sailing through the air overhead. Itstruck in the water several yards beyond the canoe with a "chung," buthad gone wide of the mark. From the fringe of shadow the Shawanoe hadhurled another missile, but he had thrown it with such viciousfierceness that it missed the target altogether.

  Before he could repeat the attempt with more care, Larry impelled theboat beyond his reach, and that particular danger for the time was past.

  "I wonder if he can throw across the lake?" muttered Larry; "keep asharp eye on him, for he may begin a bombardment bimeby that will layus out."

  "We are surely too far off," replied Wharton, surveying the long spaceover which they had passed.

  Nevertheless, they kept a close watch for some demonstration, which,however, did not take place.

  The lake where the canoe now crossed was no more than a furlong inwidth, and Larry veered as near to the beginning of the gorge as wassafe, for by so doing he effected considerable gain.

  In his eagerness to accomplish this he narrowly missed a fatal blunder.Ere he was aware, he found himself sweeping toward the gorge which hadcaused them so much trouble.

  He did not approach nearly so close as the Indian, but only by the moststrenuous exertions was he able to save himself. When they reached theshore at last he was exhausted.

  They were secure, however, and inexpressibly relieved to findthemselves, after all their work and danger, on the other side of thecurrent which had been so long an impassable barrier in their path. Theyhad come a long way to do this, and more than once they asked themselveswhether it was not a mistake. But for their conviction that an ambushhad been laid along the trail, thus compelling a detour, the attemptnever would have been made.

  It now remained for them to follow the gorge down in the direction ofthe falls until they were as near the path as prudent, and then strikeout for the block-house, returning to the trail at a point beyond wherethey believed the Shawanoes were awaiting them.

  But they were fatigued at the time they halted for supper, and they hadnot gone far when they found themselves so weary and sleepy that it washard to drag one foot after another. The ground was rougher than theysupposed, and would have taxed the strength of stronger persons thanthey. They were in need of rest and must have it.

  "It can't lack much of daylight," said Wharton, halting where the rockswere bare and they were near the rushing torrent, "and we may as wellwait until then."

  "We haven't gone far," remarked Larry, removing his cap and running hisfingers through his hair, "and we know that we're on the right course.Do ye mind, too, that we can travel a good many miles atween this timeand sunrise?"

  "All right; do you say keep on?"

  "Of course."

  "Come on, then."

  Wharton wheeled about to continue their journey when his friendinterposed:

  "Hold on; I forgot that I am so tired. I can't walk half a dozen stepsmore to save me."

  Wharton laughed, though he had resolved to keep it up until he droppedfrom exhaustion.

  They were satisfied with any resting-place. The sultry night renderedunnecessary any protection, and the rocks themselves were ascomfortable, almost, as a downy couch. The protuberances, when theircaps were laid upon them, afforded excellent pillows, and five minutesafter stretching themselves out both were sound asleep.

  The spot, which had been selected with little thought, was on the fringeof the wood, which approached to within twenty feet of the river. Therocks were rough and uneven, but it was easy to find places that suitedtheir forms. They lay down just within the shadow thrown out by thetrees, where they could not be seen by any one unless he stumbled overthem.

  But for their extreme fatigue they would have adopted the ordinaryprecaution of kindling a fire, or taking turns in mounting guard whilethe other slept. Each, however, knew that he was incapable of remainingawake, and the attempt was not made.

  True, there was danger abroad, but, except in the case of wild animals,it was as great with as without the fire. It was likely, indeed, to begreater.

  This complete wearing out also of the bodies prevented either noticingthat the course of the moon would soon cause its light to fall upontheir faces, thus bringing them into plain view of any who might belurking in the neighborhood.

  And it came about that less than an hour had gone by when the two werediscovered. The figure of an Indian appeared moving noiselessly alongthe banks of the ravine, almost in their very footsteps. At every fewpaces he paused and looked keenly about him, as if in quest ofsomething.

  Suddenly the owner of the canoe, for it was he, halted. Could any onehave seen his face, he would have noticed the frightful expression ofexultation which passed over it, for he was searching for these twoyouths and had found them.