"My brother has the eye of a hawk, even as has his son," said Silver Fox, busily ramming down a fresh charge and powdering the pan of his long musket. "Three of our number picked out one of these enemies, and he died at once. Another was struck by a single bullet, and he lies there, close to the reeds. The fourth will be slain within a little while. Listen, my brother, there is noise on the far side of the river."
There was indeed a commotion. For a little while the twenty or more warriors over there had kept up their awful whooping, and as their comrades on the near side had responded, the shouts and whoops became even greater. But now that the rifles of the trappers had spoken so suddenly and unexpectedly, the babel became even worse. Painted redskins showed up openly on the bank, frantically waving their muskets, while two stood in the water ready to reinforce the man who was swimming out to the drifting canoes.
"They are as much startled and taken aback as are we," said Tom Mainwaring. "Keep steady here, Silver Fox, and let us see what we can do for the young hawk. My son will reach the canoes almost at the same time as that redskin, and a bullet from us might help. Ah, they are firing." While he spoke he rammed fresh charges into the two muskets with feverish energy, his eyes all the time roaming from the surface of the river to the figures on the far bank. As he had said, it seemed more than likely that Steve would reach the canoes as soon as the redskin, for his long powerful strokes were taking him through the water at a rapid pace, and as if fortune had decided to help him a slight breeze which had since got up came sweeping along the river and drifted the two craft towards him.
"Stay here, my brother," whispered Silver Fox suddenly. "There are others who are attempting to reach the canoes. Silver Fox will help the young Hawk."
He dropped from the tree as light as a feather, and when Tom looked down there was the Indian stealing along through the trees, his musket trailing and one hand busily engaged in sweeping the ground before him. This redskin had not lived the life of his race for nothing. He knew that even in the excitement of all that was occurring there would be ears on the far side of the river listening for sounds of an enemy, and he was well aware that a broken branch, the crushing of some piece of brittle drift wood, would give the enemy on the far shore an inkling of what was happening. To him it was as simple as playing to creep through the forest like a snake. Even Tom, who knew his intentions and the direction he had taken, could not follow his track. There was not even a swaying branch to show where he was.
Meanwhile Steve had made good progress, and was within a few strokes of the canoes. Could he reach the one in which Talking Bear lay before the Indian came up with it? No! There was a commotion in the water on the far side of the frail craft, a red hand gripped the gunwale, and as he looked the hideous painted face of the Indian came into full view. His leg was thrown over the edge, and in a twinkling he had taken his place, panting with his exertions, the water dripping from his body and streaming from his scalp-lock and his feathered headdress.
"COME NEARER THAT I MAY KILL YOU EASILY," HE SAID
"Come nearer that I may kill you easily," he said, gripping his tomahawk and leaning towards Steve. "Come nearer, pale face, for if you would flee I will dive in after you."
Steve made no answer, and indeed took little notice of the man. Without pausing in his course, he surged nearer to the canoe, and then suddenly dived beneath the water as if he were making for the farther side. And very fortunately for him the rain of the previous night had coloured the river a deep brown, so that it was almost impossible to detect the whereabouts of anyone beneath the surface. The Indian stood upright for a moment, staring into the water. Then he leaned one hand on the far side of the canoe, and waited, his keen tomahawk poised in the air, ready to strike the instant the pale face appeared.