"Wouldn't that be a pretty thing for me to carry?" remarked the youth, placing the hand which held it against his waist, as though it were a watch charm which he was holding in place for the admiration of others. "If I should walk back to Martinsville, and stride up and down between the houses, wouldn't the folks open their eyes? and wouldn't mother conclude that her Jack was doing well?"
In order the better to examine the scalp, the lad had laid down his gun and the quiver and bow within the canoe, where they could be caught up if wanted. He was too prudent to hold his position, with the possibility of the Pawnees reappearing, without continually glancing around in quest of them. Aware, too, that his footprints were likely to be discovered, he would not have approached the canoe, had it not been for a well-formed purpose of turning the boat to his own advantage.
"The Pawnees have come over the river to raise the mischief with us, so it will only be fair if I do what I can to reciprocate. I'm sure that when they come back, this canoe will either be missing, or it will have to run into port for repairs."
A shiver as if from an electric shock darted from the crown of Jack's head to his feet, for at that instant, he heard a slight sound as if made by a person clearing his throat. Looking up, he saw one of the Pawnee warriors, twenty yards distant, walking toward him. He held his rifle in one hand, and was moving slowly with his eyes fixed on the ground just in front of him. His manner left no doubt that he was the owner of the scalp in the canoe, and that, having missed it, he was walking back over his own trail, while he searched every foot of ground for the trophy. He had not seen the young Kentuckian, and had no suspicion that he was in the vicinity. Discovery, however, must come within the next few seconds, for the nearest shelter was too far off to be of avail. The sight of the pale-face skurrying to cover, would be sure to bring a bullet from the Pawnee's gun, or he would summon his comrades to the spot, by one of those whoops which were heard so many times the previous day.
A Critical Situation.
There was but one thing to do—shoot at the Pawnee and run. Jack bent over to pick up his gun, but in his panic grasped Deerfoot's bow by mistake. Fortunately, it was strung, and it took only a second or two to fit an arrow in place. Pointing it at the approaching Indian, he put forth his utmost strength to draw it to a head.