The trio on the shore stood and listened in silence. Nick Robbins pretended to be as much astonished as his companion, though in reality he was secretly exulting over the success of his counterplot. The rage, fear, surprise and disappointment that took possession of Jim McCabe, were so overwhelming in their ebullition that he could not speak, and, like one struck dumb, he stood and stared, his labored respiration the only sound he made. That the Indians were being repulsed with heavy loss there was not the least room for doubt, and that this unexpected result was caused by previous preparations on the part of the whites to meet the attack, was equally plain to the ruffian’s mind. He did not blame Robbins with this—he could not believe him capable of such treachery! He realized how fully Robbins had established himself in his favor and confidence, and felt as though he would be willing to stake his life that the man was truly his friend, and the friend of the Indians. And yet his scheme was certainly a failure. Isabel Moreland, whom he had thought almost in his power, was not to be his after all. He ground his teeth, and his eyes gleamed like those of a wild beast, but he could not find words to express his feelings, so he was silent.
The carnage on the river was kept up for a few short moments. Shots were fired at irregular intervals by both sides, our trio noting every flash and crack of the guns, and listening keenly for the result. From the uncertain foundation of what they heard—or, rather, did not hear—they deduced the opinion that none of the whites were hurt, while they knew that among the savages there was a fearful destruction of life. The whoops, and screams, and groans were continued, but they gradually grew weaker and weaker, until at last not a sound could be heard save the steady gurgle and swash of the mighty Ohio, as it swept onward in its unceasing flow toward the great “Father of Waters.” The fight was at an end, and silence once more brooded over the river.
No sooner had the sounds of the brief conflict ceased, than Nick Robbins made a singular movement. Suddenly throwing out both of his arms, he seized Jim McCabe and Mike Terry by their clothing, and began to drag them back by main force from the water’s edge! A short distance from the bank he stopped, and exclaimed:
“Down on yer faces—quick!”
“Wha—wha—what’s the matter?” stammered McCabe, as he felt himself going down to the ground without the least exertion on his part.
“’Sh!” cautioned the hunter. “Don’t speak a word—don’t move! Thar’s a boat comin’ this way, an’ it’s almost hyur! Listen! Don’t ye hear it?”
Yes, McCabe and the Irish boy both heard it now, and very distinctly, too. It was the measured dip of a paddle in the water, and it was apparently drawing nigh with great rapidity. Indeed, the canoe—for a canoe it certainly was—had approached almost within sight before even Nick Robbins had discovered its proximity!
In a moment they heard the boat strike the shore. Then they fairly held their breath as they waited for the occupants to land. Soon two dark forms sprung upon the bank—only two, and they wore the plumes and scanty apparel of Indians!
One of them, however, as he stood revealed in the dim starlight, was instantly known to be a white man. More—he was recognized as that fiendish outlaw, Simon Girty!