“Y’ur right,” said the other. “Lay ’er off sou’-west a trifle an’ we’ll try ter steal ashore under kiver of the darkness.”
Goodbrand obeyed, taking a course that would land them some distance below the point from which they had embarked. Though prudent himself, he instinctively deferred to the judgment of his white friend. And there were but few along the border who did not place more confidence in the opinions of Scarred Eagle than in their own.
The latter, while his friend pushed forward the canoe, reloaded his trusty rifle, which he had left in the canoe with his powder-horn, at the time he feigned death. This accomplished, he directed his gaze toward the shore.
“Easy, Goodbrand, easy,” he whispered, at length. “It’s gittin’ dark, but not fast enough for our purpose onless we move slower. That’s right—it’s better.”
His Indian friend had ceased to paddle, and the canoe floated noiselessly on the water. For a quarter of an hour neither of them spoke except in low whispers. About two hundred yards away loomed up the great forest, stretching away from the shore. Not a sound came from its depths yet they knew lurkers might lie along shore, thirsting for their blood.
“It’s jest possible that we mout land safe, Goodbrand; but ’twon’t dew to trust the appearance of things hereaway,” remarked Scarred Eagle. “Some o’ the chaps orter be expectin’ us, even ef they hain’t heard our rifles, which it is posserble they hain’t.”
“S’pose you give signal,” said the Indian.
“We’ll steal up a little closer fust. Thar’s hardly an outline of the shore to be seen now.”
Goodbrand began to push the canoe forward. Suddenly a single peculiar note came from the forest.
“About with it, quick!” whispered Scarred Eagle. “It’s Ben Mace’s signal, an’ warns of danger.”