“I camp here,” said Charlie, “ever since you go ’way. I look down river for you, mos’ every day—think maybe you come back. I see you yesterday when you come.”
“You’re the best friend I ever had, Charlie!” said Tom gratefully. “Maybe you saved my life to-night. How did you find me? Where was I?”
Charlie burst into an explanation, compounded of English and French, which he was apt to use when excited. It made Tom’s head ache, but he gathered that Charlie had slipped out of sight on seeing his friend’s capture, but had stayed close inshore in the canoe. He heard the sound of Tom’s choked-off cry and fall, but had not dared to interfere as Harrison was almost immediately joined by the red-haired man. Between them, they had tied Tom up and carried him several hundred yards farther down the shore, depositing him in a little valley full of evergreens. McLeod remained on guard, while Harrison returned to the camp. Charlie had scouted close up, and thought of shooting the red-haired man, but restrained himself. Finally, McLeod went back to the camp also, to get matches for his pipe, Charlie thought; and the Indian boy seized the opportunity for a rescue.
“We safe here,” he concluded. “Good place—can look up, down—they never find us. Besides, you say your father come.”
“I declare, so he is!” Tom exclaimed with a start. In his confusion and pain he had totally forgotten that fact. Mr. Jackson was coming, was doubtless on the way; and then Tom remembered also Harrison’s statement that his father would be “turned back.”
“We must meet him, Charlie!” he cried. “Those fellows may catch him, murder him perhaps.”
“Plenty time. He not come till daylight,” said Charlie, glancing up at the sky. “Three hours, mebbe. Sleep now.”
And the young Indian stolidly stretched himself on the spruce twigs also, and appeared to fall instantly asleep.
Tom could not rest so easily. It was true, no doubt, that his father would not come in the darkness. Morning would be time enough to look for him. But he felt nervously uneasy, impatient, and alarmed. His head still ached and spun at the slightest movement. Feeling it cautiously, he found it badly swollen on the left side, and blood had dried and caked in his hair. Harrison must have struck him with the revolver butt, he thought.
He tried to compose himself, lay awake for a long time grew drowsy at last and drifted through a series of nightmares, awaking with a painful start. But at last he did sleep, and was disturbed only by hearing Charlie making a fire.