As he crept closer Joe could hear his sister begging piteously of the Indian to let her go back to Mrs. Parsons.
“Please, please, let me go back!” cried Harmony. “Oh, have you no heart?”
“White maiden be quiet,” growled Long Knife. “Can talk much after she is in Long Knife’s wigwam.”
“I do not want to go to your wigwam,” moaned the girl. “I want to go back to the lady I was with.”
“Bah! the old Quaker woman does not count,” was Long Knife’s comment. “She is not as good as the squaw that shall take care of the white maiden.”
“I don’t want any squaw to take care of me,” answered Harmony, and then fell to weeping silently.
So far Joe had formed no plan of rescue. Long Knife had dropped his hold of the girl and was now paddling vigorously with both hands, and it was all the young pioneer could do to keep him in sight.
When about half a mile of the river had been covered, they came to a spot where there was something of a lake. Here Long Knife paddled with less speed and Joe came closer rapidly.
In the canoe the youth had the bow and arrows made for him by Pep Frost, and also a stout club he had cut for himself.
“I wish I had a gun instead of the bow,” he thought. “I’d soon knock him over as he deserves.”