The discussion ended in Murray’s going first. When the white horse stepped into the water, a cold shudder passed over Walter. He had every cause to hate and fear the Black Murray. He hoped Scar Face would not miss. Yet, quite unreasonably, he wished the rascally mixed blood might have a chance to fight for his life. He looked a fine figure of a man on his big, white horse.
He came deliberately enough, letting his horse pick its way, as McNab had done. From the willows on the islet there was no move, no sound. He was opposite the tip now. He was past it. He was coming on. Had Scar Face weakened? Had he lost his courage?
The silence was broken by a sudden menacing sound, not loud but strangely blood-chilling; the Ojibwa war whoop. On the near side of the islet a figure leaped into view. At the same instant, it seemed, Murray swung about on his horse’s back, musket raised. He was a breath too late. Scar Face had fired.
The distance was too short, the target too good for the Ojibwa hunter to miss. Even as his own gun went off, Murray swayed forward. The white horse leaped and plunged. More shots came from the island. Horse and rider went down, and the muddy water flowed over them.
On the farther bank, the slender Dakota’s horse was hit. As it fell, the man leaped clear, and darted back among the willows. There followed an exchange of shots between shore and islet, without a man visible in either place. Only the puffs of smoke betrayed the hiding places.
Gray eyes gleaming, Duncan McNab turned to Neil. “Get you awa’,” he ordered. “Ta Traverse as fast as your legs can carry ye.”
“And you?” the boy asked.
“I’ll o’ertak ye. I’ll be seein’ the end o’ this, ta mak sure there’s na followin’. On your wa’, all o’ ye.”
XXXIX
SAFE
Not one of the three boys thought of disobeying Duncan McNab’s stern command. On hands and knees, for fear some Indian might catch a glimpse of them and send a shot in their direction, they crawled through the bushes. Not until they were out of sight as well as out of range, did they stand upright.