But then he thought of the Indians and how two of the red men had pointed their arrows at him. They must be enemies to the whites, and if that was so it would not do to run the risk of falling into their hands. Yet he knew of no way to reach the old hunter except to trail back along the bank of the stream which had played him such a sad trick. Young as he was he knew the folly of trying to strike a direct course through the dense forest which confronted him.
“I’ll have to risk the Indians,” he said to himself, with something like a groan. “Perhaps, if I’m careful, I can get past them without being seen—that is, if they are still in the neighborhood. But for all I know they may have shot and scalped Sam long before this,” and the cold perspiration stood out on his brow.
His gun was still over his shoulder and his powder horn hung at his belt. But the powder was soaked and therefore useless, so he could not reload. This left him only his hunting knife to fall back on, in case of attack by Indian or wild animal, and he started on the return with a heart as heavy as the leaden bullets which were now useless to him.
CHAPTER XVIII
DAVE VISITS AN INDIAN VILLAGE
Dave’s first movement was to get from the island to the bank of the stream. Having no desire to be carried further by that treacherous current, he entered the water with care and did not leave one foot-hold until he was sure of the next. It was now almost dark and the shadows along the shore were rapidly growing black and forbidding.
Having gained the bank, he wrung the water from his jacket and emptied his boots. The brushwood was thick close to the stream and he found if he wished to make any progress up the river he would have to enter the forest, fifty feet further back. This he did and was soon moving on, over moss, dead leaves, gnarled roots, and stones as speedily as his tired frame permitted. Under ordinary circumstances he would have dropped and gone to sleep, now the fear of what might happen kept him wide awake.
At last the forest came to an end and he found himself mounting the rocky canyon through which the stream had cut its way probably centuries before. Here he had to do a vast amount of climbing and long before the canyon came to an end he was so tired he could scarcely drag one foot after the other.
“It’s no use,” he groaned, half aloud. “I can’t get back to-night and I might as well look for some place where I can camp out. If I don’t take care I’ll become completely lost.”
A short distance further on he came to a pretty creek flowing into the river. Feeling he could not get lost as long as he kept near the creek, he followed this tiny stream until he felt certain the woods would hide him from the Indians should they come in that direction. He sank on a fallen tree and gave himself up to his dismal reflections.
What had become of the old hunter? Had Sam had trouble with the redskins, or was he following the river in hope of finding his companion?