Robert struggled to sit up in a jiffy. The Black Rifle was a fearsome man—an Indian-killer. And around-about there were other white-men, in buckskin and long hair, powder flasks and bullet pouches, hatchets and knives—several of them with fresh scalps at their belts.
He groped for his letter. It was gone again! The Black Rifle laughed silently.
“You miss something?” he asked in Delaware.
“You have it?” the Hunter stammered in English. His head hurt him. He put up his hand; his head was bandaged and wet; his hand came away red.
Captain Jack the Black Rifle continued to laugh inside himself.
“Hah, boy! You have a hard skull. The Huron hatchet glanced like a chip. Where were you going?”
“I carry letter to Washington. You got it?”
“No.”
What! It was lost? Had the Ottawas found it after all? The agony of the Hunter’s head was nothing compared with the agony of his heart. He would have tottered to his feet, but the hand of the Black Rifle pressed him down.
“Lie still. The letter’s on its way.”