“Where’s Fagan?”
“I think,” panted Bill, “that as we pitched into the rapids, his head hit a sunken rock which mine didn’t. He more’n likely kilt hisself.”
“See there!” called out Ben, pointing excitedly down the rock-strewn chute.
“It’s the body!” shouted Tom. “Cast up on the point of the island!”
It was true. Fagan’s skull had been fractured by the impact of the blow, and he was quite dead. Without further words they took the body from the shallows and gave it Christian burial on high ground in the center of the island.
“Our lucky star must’ve been shinin’,” said Bill Brown thankfully, as they turned and left the spot, “to bring us all through this bloody fightin’ ’thout so much as a scratch.”
“But what of Bright Star?” asked Ben suddenly.
A loud whoop, full of triumph, rang out over wood and water. The three looked up eagerly, to see the young Pottawattomee skipping nimbly toward them over the stepping-stones. As he drew nearer, they noticed a fresh scalp, dangling from his belt. But no questions were asked. They fully understood.