But, the scout never knew whether or not it was an Indian’s head, nor what had been the effect of his shot, for, simultaneous with the report of the rifle, the raft dropped into a strong, surging eddy—swung swiftly around a number of times, and then, as if a magazine had exploded in its midst, it flew apart—every log became separated from each other by the circling force of the water; and there, in the midst of the whirling, rolling logs and debris, were a half a dozen Indians, struggling desperately with the waves.
Old Tumult burst into a roar of laughter when he discovered this providential misfortune to the savages.
As the scout had mistrusted, the red-skins had secreted themselves among the logs and debris; and, but for the parting of the raft in the eddy, and the sudden precipitation of the cunning foe into the seething waters, it is very probable that our friends would have been shot down in another moment.
As fast as Old Tumult could load and fire upon the struggling, panic-stricken enemy, he did so with telling effect. And those of the savages that escaped his deadly aim, were overpowered by the waves and swept away.
Again our friends had nothing, for the moment, to fear from the Arapahoes.
A silence ensued.
Town. was thinking of Madge and Clara, while Old Tumult was silently wondering what course the enemy would next resort to, to dislodge them from their retreat.
Suddenly they were startled by the sharp twang of a horn.
The sound came from the eastern shore. They glanced in that direction and discovered a horseman moving along the shore toward the north.
They recognized him at the first glance.