“Wounded!” panted Dallas.
“Yes—no! I can’t tell! Look!” said the injured man huskily.
A few minutes’ examination showed how narrow had been his escape, a bullet having struck the side of the poor fellow’s head, just abrading the scalp. Half an inch lower must have meant death.
“Injuns,” said the Cornishman laconically.
“No, no,” cried Dallas, with a fierce look round; “it must be our enemies.”
“Not they, my lad; they’re fast asleep under the snow, you may take your oath. It’s Injuns, by the way they hid themselves. Now, then, can you keep watch—sentry go?” he said, addressing Abel.
“Yes, it was only a graze from the bullet; I am better now.”
“Then you take a loaded rifle and keep watch while we go on knocking the raft together.”
“Yes,” cried Dallas, “the sooner we get away from here the better.”
All set to work with feverish energy at the raft-making. Enough wood was cut, and by clever notching together, the use of spikes, and a further strengthening with rope, the framework rapidly progressed, their intention being to launch, load up, and set off that evening, so as to get to a safer spot.