"I will go," he said.
He hurried along at the edge of the timber. It seemed a great distance to the spot where he had found the trail of the Shawnees. When he finally came in sight of the charred logs on the shore, he stopped and looked sharply for signs of his foes. There was no evidence of them. He circled cautiously through the woods, and approached the place where he had concealed the canoe. It had disappeared. He stared in astonishment. Who had found it? He felt quite certain that it had been taken away by the Mohawks. The thought awakened his suspicions. He searched through the bushes in the hope of finding their canoes. His efforts were futile. There were no fresh tracks to indicate that the Mohawk war party had visited the spot.
"It is mysterious," he said.
Running Fox suddenly realized that he was wasting time. The thought roused him. Each moment was precious. The slightest delay might prove fatal to his friends. He looked across the river. It was wide, and deep and swift. For an instant only he hesitated. Then he pushed his bow into its wolf-skin case, and waded boldly into the water. It was bitterly cold, and the shallow pools along the shore were crusted with ice. Unmindful of the shock, Running Fox threw himself forward and began to swim.
A bow-shot from the shore he caught the full force of the current and was borne rapidly down the river. Then as he struggled fiercely to free himself, the chill of the water began to cramp his muscles. For an instant his tired limbs refused to work. Weighted down by his buckskin shirt and breeches, he sank beneath the surface. He fought his way above water, and kicked the cramp from his legs. His strength, however, was rapidly leaving him. The shore seemed very far away. The channel was wider than he had suspected. He appeared unable to escape from the fierce grip of the current. The intense cold was penetrating to his heart. His fingers contracted with cramp. His legs began to drag. His strokes grew steadily weaker. He was losing ground. For an instant he lost hope.
"The fierce Water Monsters will get me!" he cried in dismay.
Then he suddenly thought of his friends. He had pledged himself to save them. They had placed their confidence in him. Getanittowit had listened to his appeal and aided him to escape from the swamp. The way had been made clear for him to reach his people. Now he was throwing away his life, and sacrificing his friends to the Mohawks. He rallied at the thought. The hot fighting blood rushed to his brain. He continued his desperate battle with the river.
"I must live to help my brothers," he said, savagely.
Struggling frantically, he slowly fought his way across the channel. Stroke by stroke, he dragged himself from the clutches of the current. At last he was free. He had reached a long stretch of quiet water. He took courage. His fear of the dreaded Water Monsters suddenly left him. He swam more easily. He fixed his eyes upon the shore. It was less than a bow-shot away. Slowly, steadily, he shortened the distance. Each stroke strengthened his confidence. At last he cautiously lowered his feet. They struck the bed of the river. A few moments afterward he ceased swimming and began to wade. He staggered from the water and made his way to the edge of the woods. Then he collapsed and crumpled into the brush. It was only a few moments before he recovered and struggled to his feet.
"Am I a woman?" he asked himself, fiercely.