While he was deliberating a shout rang out ahead, followed by a rifle shot.
Then, as if in a dream, he heard a yell in Sam Barringford's voice:
"Stop, Jean Bevoir, you everlastin' rascal! Stop!"
"Sam! Sam!" he screamed, and rode forward. "Sam, is it really you!"
"Dave!" came in the voice of Henry. "Dave! What can this mean? What are you doing here?"
The cry came from the left, and Dave turned his horse in that direction. More shots rang out, and he saw an Indian go down. Then Jacques Valette turned toward the young pioneer.
"You shall not get away!" cried the rascally French hunter, and raised his gun. But before he could use the weapon James Morris fired upon him, and Valette pitched into the snow, shot through the thigh. Then Dave went on, and in a moment more found himself among his friends and relatives.
There was no time to answer questions. The Wyandots and Ottawas were coming up swiftly, and once more the Wanderers and Jean Bevoir attempted to outdistance them. Jacques Valette also attempted to remount his horse, but ere he could do so a Wyandot reached him and struck him down again. The blow crushed the Frenchman's skull, and he died before sunrise.
"We must get out of this," said Dave, when he could speak. "The Indians are after us! If we stay here we may be caught between two fires."
"Come with me!" came from White Buffalo. "White Buffalo knows a good hiding place."
James Morris' party turned back, and with Dave by his father's side, all rode through the forest to the southward. Here they reached a small brook, backed up by rugged rocks and a thick patch of timber. In the timber they halted, and in a short while the snow, now whirling in every direction, hid their trail completely from view.