As he ran he fitted an arrow to his bow-string. The rifle had sounded near. Now he heard the rifle again, and the scalp yell of the Mingo—a long, shrill yell, the Indian hurrah! Next he had arrived at a little dip in the forest, where the glade opened to thinner trees and low brush. Guns banged, but not at him. Just before him were several Indians, hiding behind trees, and firing and whooping; and across, from behind a log, upon which lay a dead Indian, a long rifle barrel was thrust out, between branches, threatening these nearer Indians.
The dead Indian had been scalped. Behind that rifle barrel was Scarouady. By their paint and head-dresses, these nearer Indians were Cherokees; and Scarouady was in a tight place. He could not run back to the forest; he would soon be surrounded.
The Hunter knew what to do. He gave the Mingo war whoop, and drawing the arrow to the head he let fly. A Cherokee yelped and leaped, with the arrow jutting from his left arm. Robert whooped again, his bow twanged, the arrow hissed and quivered in a tree, for attacked from the rear the four Cherokees had bolted away into the forest as if they thought that a whole company of Mingos were upon them.
Scarouady sprang up and threw his hatchet after. He whooped with triumph, and then he laughed.
“Is that you, Hunter?”
“Yes.”
“Good. They are gone.” He came over, with the scalp in his belt. “You did well, Hunter. You are a warrior,” he said. “Wah! You have been running far.”
“A Cherokee chased me; then I heard you shoot.”
“Where is he?”
“I left him with a bear,” said Robert; and explained.