The shore was almost reached, when the Indians set up a yell, and while two of them continued to row the other two rose up and fixed arrows in their bows.
“White soldier stop!” cried one, in bad English. “Stop, or be killed!”
“I reckon you’ll kill me anyway,” muttered Henry, and as the canoe grated on the shore, he dropped the paddle, caught up his hunting knife, and leaped to land.
It is barely possible that the youth might have escaped to the forest once more. But as he ran for the trees, two Indians suddenly appeared before him. One carried a stout stick, and without warning he struck Henry a heavy blow on the head. The young soldier uttered a moan, staggered from side to side, and then fell senseless.
In a moment more, and just as the Indian who had struck the blow was bending over the unconscious youth to scalp him, the Indians in the rowboat came up.
“Rising Moon must stop,” called one of the number. “He must not scalp the pale face.” He spoke in his native tongue.
“Why does Falling Waters speak thus?” demanded the other. “It was Rising Moon’s hand who laid the English soldier boy low.”
“Rising Moon has earned the scalp,” went on the first Indian. “But Falling Waters has orders to bring the soldier back alive.”
At this Rising Moon’s face took on a sour look.
“Who gave the order?”