“Harry!” he called softly. “Harry!”
No answer came back, and with caution he shoved the leading canoe through the brushwood toward the bank.
“Keep quiet, Harmony, while I try to find out how the fight is going,” he said, and leaped ashore, hunting knife in hand.
“Oh, Joe, don’t leave me,” she pleaded, but he was already gone.
It was an easy matter to crawl to the vicinity of the Indian camp from where the canoes lay hidden. The whooping and the shots had ended as suddenly as they had begun.
Suddenly Joe stumbled over the dead body of an Indian, still warm, and with blood flowing from a wound in the breast. The discovery was a shock to the young pioneer, and he felt a great desire to jump up and fly from the scene.
Hardly had he made this discovery than he ran across Harry, leaning against a tree, gasping for breath.
“Harry,” he cried, and caught his chum just as he was about to fall in a heap. “Where are you hit?”
“Some—somebody struck me in the—the stomach with a—a—club,” was the gasped-out reply. “Oh!” And then Harry sank like a lump of lead.
Without stopping to think twice Joe picked up the form of his chum and started for the canoes once more. It was a heavy load, but the excitement of the moment gave the youth added strength.