Captain Lewis staggered on, to the white pirogue.
“I’ve been shot, men,” he panted. “Not mortally, I think. Indians are in that thicket. Cruzatte is somewhere there, too.”
“Did you see any Injuns, cap’n?”
“No; the ball came from ambush, just as I was aiming at an elk. Gass, take the men and follow me. We must rescue Cruzatte. I’d lost sight of him.”
“Willard, you and the two Fields,” roared Pat, springing into the shallows. “The bloody Big-bellies ag’in!”
But Peter went also, with his bow and arrows. Nobody objected. The captain led on for about one hundred steps, when his leg gave out and he almost fell.
“I can’t travel,” he gasped. “I’ll return to the boat. If you’re overpowered, Sergeant, keep your men together and retreat in good order, and we’ll fight from the river.”
“Yis, sorr.” And Pat gallantly plunged ahead, into the brush. “Kentucky an the Irish ag’in the redskins, lads,” he cheered. “But mind your eyes.”
This was exciting. The willows were thick—good hiding-place. Where was Cruzatte—poor old Cruzatte with the one eye? Peter stuck close behind Pat. His nostrils were wide, his eyes roved, his every sense was on the alert. He was Oto once more. Now was heard a crashing, before. Elk? Indian? Hah!
“That’s a mighty quare sort o’ Injun, to be makin’ all that noise,” muttered Pat, peering, his rifle advanced at a ready.