“Ross,” she faltered, “you—you will not desert me——”
“Amy,” he cried in a sharp whisper, “did I ever desert you—ever deceive you?”
Bursting into tears, she buried her face in the folds of the shawl that enveloped her child, and moaned brokenly:
“No—no! You were always true—always——”
He left her softly sobbing, and made his way toward the river. Every few yards he stopped, peered into the surrounding darkness, and listened intently. But he saw or heard nothing of an alarming nature. Presently he emerged from the gloomy woods and stood upon the sloping bank of the stream. Above him, the black vault was studded with stars; beneath him, the dark water was softly lapping upon the sandy beach. Down the stream, he discovered the flaring fires of the British encampment; and up the river—and on the opposite side—the twinkling lights of Fort Meigs. The confused, indistinct murmur of voices in the distance was borne upon the evening breeze. Then a dog’s deep, mournful bay fell upon the listener’s ear.
“Duke!” he muttered. “He has escaped the general carnage—he’s at the fort. Farley and Bright Wing will care for him, if I lose my life.”
Cautiously he began a search along the shore, for some means of crossing the stream. The soft dip of a paddle came to his ear. Silently retreating to some overhanging bushes, he waited, watched, and listened. The sound of the paddle became more and more distinct. Out of the shadows, emerged a small craft containing a single occupant. It rapidly approached the place where Douglas stood. The young man drew his knife and, gently parting the bushes, peered forth. The canoeman was a stalwart Indian. The next moment, the light vessel grated upon the sands and the unwary paddler sprang ashore. Hardly had his feet touched the earth, ere he sank in his tracks, a corpse, with Douglas’s keen knife buried in his heart.
“It’s little short of murder,” muttered the young scout; “but there was no alternative. One of us had to die.”
Quickly stooping, he rolled the body of his fallen foe into the river. Drawing the canoe ashore and secreting it among the bushes, he rapidly retraced his steps to Amy Hilliard and her child. He found her still seated upon the log, her face buried in the folds of the baby’s shawl. Touching her upon the shoulder, he said simply:
“I’ve found a boat. Come.”