A chief called sternly, and gestured, bidding the two canoes to land where the bank had washed in a little cove.
"We're in for it," remarked John Colter. "Come on, and I'll talk with 'em."
"Not I," the other John growled. "Let's talk from here."
"That's pure folly." And knowing Indians better than his comrade did, John Colter paddled in with a few strokes.
One of the Blackfoot warriors seized his canoe at once; hands rudely hauled him out, and upon the bank, wrenched his gun from him and tore off all his clothes. It was an alarming welcome.
John Potts was still in his own canoe, in mid-stream. The Indians again called to him, and the chief beckoned.
"Come ashore, or they'll kill you where you are," urged John Colter. There were eight hundred of them!
But Trapper Potts shook his head.
"I'll not. I might as well be killed here and now, as be robbed and beaten first. You—"
A bow twanged angrily. Down he fell, in the bottom of his canoe. John Colter could scarcely see, by reason of the dancing, shouting Blackfeet. Then he heard.