Hardly had the echoes of the reports ceased when Scarred Eagle sprung up and leveled his rifle. Its report was followed by jeering cries from the pursuers, who redoubled their exertions at the oars.
“That ’ar was wasted through your whirlin’ round an’ rockin’ the canoe so sudden, Goodbrand,” said Scarred Eagle, with chagrin in his tone. “Ah!” he immediately added, as his quick glance fell upon his friend’s head, “struck, war ye? Wal, it’s no use puttin’ things off longer. Take y’ur rifle.”
The other did so, suffering the canoe to float idly on the water, while his white companion was hurriedly reloading. But the latter had not time to finish the work. Not more than forty yards now separated the canoes, and the occupants of the hindmost had also ceased their labors, preparing for the struggle. Two of them suddenly rose, and three reports rung out simultaneously. The shot of Goodbrand told with good effect, for one of his enemies fell back into the lake. He himself was merely grazed; but his white friend, Scarred Eagle, uttered a deep groan and fell headlong beneath the waters of the lake!
The Indian, Goodbrand, could not repress an exclamation of sorrow. He was as deeply attached to Scarred Eagle as though the latter had been an own brother. But now, the career of his friend seemed ended.
The faithful fellow was almost on the point of throwing himself into the lake after his friend. But the exultant yells of his enemies roused in him that instinct of revenge so characteristic of his race. He had no chance to reload his rifle, for the other canoe was now but a few yards distant, and he knew three Miami warriors were ready to shoot him the moment he should rise.
Goodbrand himself was a Miami Indian. He had been converted years before, by the Moravian missionaries, and had only departed from their teachings in that he took up the hatchet of war, in behalf of the white race whom he loved. For this reason he was an outcast from his tribe, and had no hopes of other than a cruel death, in the event of falling alive into their hands.
As the canoe of the others came nearer, Goodbrand grasped knife and hatchet in either hand, fully determined not to be taken alive.
He had not been more than a few seconds thus prepared, when the appalling war-whoops of his enemies were suddenly hushed, and groans burst out, quickly followed by a splashing in the water. Quickly he raised his head and saw, not more than twenty feet away, the canoe of his pursuers bottom upward, while two of its late occupants were disappearing beneath the water! Another moment, and the form of Scarred Eagle rose from the water, surging toward him!
“Push up, Goodbrand, push up,” said Scarred Eagle, in a panting voice. And in less time than what we occupy in describing it, the Indian had assisted his friend into the canoe.
For a few moments the latter could hardly speak, and Goodbrand, comprehending the work he had done, merely uttered an exclamation of joy as his keen eyes watched for the reappearance of their foes.