The Indian chief shook his head. “They are all gone—this part of the wilderness is deserted,” he said.
His words, however, were not true, for scarcely had he spoken when a rifle shot rang out and one of his followers fell, mortally wounded. The shot came from across the river, and looking in that direction Dave and the others saw four Indians behind the brushwood. Leaping quickly to the shelter of the trees, White Buffalo and his remaining follower fired and one enemy fell. Then of a sudden came two shots from further up the stream and two more of the enemy went down. At this the fourth Indian turned and fled into the bushes and they heard him crashing along until the sounds lost themselves in the distance.
“Father!” was all Dave could say.—Page [293].
“Hullo! are you English up thar!” came the unexpected cry.
“It is Sam Barringford’s voice,” exclaimed Dave. “Sam! Sam!” he called, with all the strength he could muster. “Come this way, Sam! It is Dave Morris and White Buffalo!”
“Wall, I never!” ejaculated the old hunter, and in a moment came more crashing of bushes and Barringford leaped into the glade. Behind him came another white man, gun in hand, and clothed in tattered buckskin. He limped as he ran and his forehead was bandaged up in a handkerchief.
“Father!” was all Dave could say and tottered forward to meet his parent, who caught him in his arms. “Father!”
“Dave, my son!” cried James Morris, joyfully. “How wonderful! I never dreamed of this!”
“Nor I father, although White Buffalo was just telling me about you. You have been a prisoner at the fort.”