A man’s head was visible through a gap between the trees. The hair was long and black, the skin dark, and the features that could be made out were rugged and wild-looking. The voice was that of one in pain.
“Why, it’s an Indian! Hurry, Brick—he’s hurt. Maybe a tree fell on him!”
“Don’t you think you better take it slow till you know what’s up?”
“Nonsense! He needs us right away. Here’s a good place to land.” Dirk leaped ashore as he spoke, and ran to the spot where the Indian lay moaning in his broken pidgin-English.
As he approached, the man rose to his feet and leaped at the boy like a wildcat. As the outstretched arms caught Dirk about the shoulders and threw him backward, he realized, too late, what was happening.
“Get away, Brick!” he screamed. “It’s a trick!” He fell on the rocky ground, with the strange Indian upon him, holding his body so that he could not move an inch, nor see what Brick was doing.
“No, he won’t get away,” said a cruel, level voice. “And if you yelp once more, young Van Horn, you’ll get a bullet in your noisy mouth!”
Dirk felt the heavy body above him suddenly removed; the Indian was rising to his feet. The boy staggered upward, and was again thrown to the earth by a fierce thrust.
“Lie there and cool off!” ordered the unseen. “Yes, I’ve got a gun on you, and on your smart pal, too. Get out of that canoe quick, Red, if you know what’s good for you.”
“If you didn’t have that pistol on me,” muttered Brick Ryan savagely through clenched teeth, “I’d—I’d——”