The Indian once more took aim, and then fired; a branch knocked from a tree just above Pepé, fell upon him and hurt his forehead. He stirred no more than the dead wood against which he leaned, but said, “Rascal of a redskin, I’ll pay you for this before long.”
Some drops of blood fell upon the face of the Canadian.
“Is any one wounded?” said he, with a shudder.
“A scratch, nothing more,” said Pepé, “God be praised!”
Just then the Indian uttered a cry of joy, as he descended from the tree on which he had mounted, and the three friends again breathed freely.
And yet some doubt seemed to remain in the minds of the Indians, for a long and solemn silence followed the manoeuvre of their chief.
The sun had now set, the short twilight had passed away, night had come on, and the moon shone on the river, yet still the Indians did not stir.
“Our scalps tempt them, but they still hesitate to come and take them,” said Pepé, who was becoming very tired of doing nothing.
“Patience!” whispered Bois-Rose, “the Indians are like the vultures, who dare not attack a body until it begins to decay. We may look out for them by-and-bye. Let us resume our position behind the reeds.”
The hunters again quickly knelt down and continued to watch their enemies.