They presently discovered the form of a man lying in a heap in the snow.
As my old readers know, Ira Sanderson was a hunter and trapper well known in that vicinity. He had accompanied James Morris on more than one expedition to the west, and had once taken charge of the trading-post during Mr. Morris's absence.
"Father must have sent him with news," said Dave. "Is he shot, or what is the matter?"
It was soon ascertained that Sanderson had been struck in the side by an arrow. The wound had been bound up in a rude way, but the loss of blood had so weakened the hunter that he could no longer stand up. It was a good hour before he felt strong enough to speak and then he said only a few words.
"I left the trading-post four weeks ago," he said. "Got captured by the redskins. They carried me up the Monongahela, an' were goin' to burn me at the stake, but I gave 'em the slip. Then comin' from Fort Pitt I got plugged in the side, as you see. But I kept on, until I got in sight of the cabin, when all my strength seemed to leave me."
"Is everybody safe at the trading-post?" asked Dave, eagerly.
"Safe so far, Dave. But there ain't no tellin' how long it will last. I—I—I'll tell you all about it when—when I'm stronger. Here is a—a letter your father—writ——" He pointed to his breast and then fainted.