Loud and reverberating the Wood King's rifle spoke, sounding the death-knell of the foremost savage, who sprung half out of the water, casting a long, glittering blade full at the hunter's heart. It was a dying effort, and the weapon scarce penetrated the thick woolen frock.
Lightfoot plied his bow rapidly, crouching back upon the shelf, sending unseen death in swift succession into the crowded mass of his foes. With knife in either hand, Boone stood in the water waist-deep, beating back the desperate Osages with the strength and vigor of renewed youth.
Though brief, the struggle was desperate and bloody. The Osages fought against more than mortal foes. The water whirled swiftly round in the strong eddy before the cave. Fighting with this, they gained a foothold, only to be dashed back by the scouts, dead or wounded.
A few moments thus—then, as by one accord, the Osages sunk down beneath the water's surface and vanished from their enemies' sight. That this was no subtle ruse, the yells of baffled rage, that soon afterward arose from below, plainly told.
"You're safe, chief?" hastily uttered Boone, emerging from the water, panting heavily.
"Yeh—me all right. You hurt?"
"No—only a scratch. But come—this is our time. We must git out o' here afore the varmints screw their courage up for another lick."
Lightfoot grunted, without speaking, but the Wood King understood him, and smiled quietly. He knew the cave secrets better than the Kickapoo did.
"Easy, chief. I know a way out that they never dream of. 'Tis no true scout that runs his head into a hole with only one opening. Give me the end of your bow—so. Now follow me carefully."
Grasping one end of the bow, Boone retreated into the cave, proceeding with the confidence of one knowing every inch of the ground to be traversed. For a few yards the floor continued level and smooth; then there came an abrupt ascent, over what seemed irregular steps cut in the hard clay. This, however, was the work of nature, not that of man.