It was an Indian Harmony had seen. He was now behind a tree, but soon they saw him come forth once more, drop into the grass, and worm his way along toward the cabin.
“He is coming this way,” cried Harry softly.
“Alone?” queried Joe.
“Yes.”
“Then give him a shot, as soon as he is in range.”
“Be sure he is an Indian,” came from Mrs. Parsons. “You do not want to shoot a friend.”
“A friend would come forward boldly,” answered Joe.
Trembling with excitement, Harry pushed the muzzle of his rifle through the loophole. Then he took careful aim at the uncertain figure in the grass and fired.
There was a shriek of pain and the red enemy leaped up and swung around one arm as if in intense pain. Then he dropped down again and loped back to the protection of the forest.
“I hit him—but I didn’t kill him,” said Harry, as he pulled in his smoking firearm; and then he set to work to reload the rifle with all speed.