"Heavens, Larry, you have killed him!" was the horrified exclamation of Wharton Edwards.
"Be easy now," coolly replied his companion, putting down the weapon and resuming the paddle; "he isn't hurt."
"Didn't you aim at him?" asked his friend, who, looking back, saw no signs of injury on the part of the Shawanoe.
"Not so loud," whispered Larry; "he might hear you."
The youth drove the canoe farther out into the lake, but all the time he kept his head turned so as to see every movement of the Indian.
Larry had not aimed at him; nothing in the world would have induced him to shoot the poor, demented creature; but he meant to give him a good scare, and he succeeded.
Instead of throwing the stone in his hand he dropped it at his feet, whirled about, and ran for the trees. As he did so he dodged from side to side like a Digger Indian when trying to distract the aim of his enemy.
"That's better than killing him," commented Wharton, with a sigh; "he thinks you intended that shot for him, and he doesn't mean to give us a second chance."
"But he is taking a second one himself. Look out!"
Wharton saw a shadowy something sailing through the air overhead. It struck in the water several yards beyond the canoe with a "chung," but had gone wide of the mark. From the fringe of shadow the Shawanoe had hurled another missile, but he had thrown it with such vicious fierceness that it missed the target altogether.