It was almost noon when he heard a faint sound in the woods to the north of the tree. Instantly he caught up his musket, which had been resting in a crotch close at hand.
Slowly the sound came closer, and he could hear the labored breathing of some man or animal. He leaned as far down as possible to catch a glimpse of the newcomer.
“Shamer!” he murmured.
He called the soldier’s name softly, and Shamer paused in wonderment.
“Who is calling me?” he panted.
“I am, Dave Morris, Shamer. I am up in the tree. Are you alone?”
“Yes, and I can hardly walk,” groaned the soldier. “A bullet struck me in the calf of the leg. Any Indians around here?”
“I haven’t seen any. My knee is hurt. Raymond was with me, but he has gone down to the shore to take a look around. Do you know anything of my cousin Henry and the others?”
“Gilfoy is dead.”
“Yes, Raymond said they had killed him. And the others?”