“Wal, it’s all luck—bear to the left, lad, bear to the left—let the prow strike the tree midways—bear hard—there—smoke of tortures!”
The exclamation was caused by the ferry-boat striking the tree, or sapling, with such sudden force that our two friends were nearly shaken from its branches. However, the boat came to a stand, and the next moment our friends stood upon its deck.
Old Tumult fairly danced with joy, while Town. was compelled to rub his limbs vigorously in order to restore the circulation.
Old Tumult pushed the boat clear of the tree, and the next moment it was slowly veering off toward the western shore.
The scout and the young ranger entered into a conversation, and in a moment the latter was in possession of all the facts that placed our two heroes in the predicament in which he found them.
Rollo then gave the scout and Town. some joyful news of the whereabouts of the two captives, Madge Taft and Clara Bryant. He had seen them taken to the village of the prophet, while scouting thereabouts, and but for the superiority in number of the savages he would have attempted their rescue. This was joyful news to the scout and Town., not because the maidens were captives in the Indian village, but to know they had survived the peril of the night’s storm.
“Did the captives seem much depressed in spirit?” asked Town.
“Miss Taft,” returned the ranger, glancing toward the shore as if to conceal the smile that passed over his dark, handsome face, “seemed very sad and downcast, when she was conducted by where I was lying concealed in the undergrowth.”
A sigh, that deepened almost into a groan, escaped Town.’s lips.
“I tell ye what, Town.,” said Old Tumult, “I know it goes plaguy tuff with a feller when he’s mixed up in a heart-affair with a purty gal, and that gal’s a prisoner in the hands o’ a pack o’ red-skins. I know it goes tuff, fur I’ve been thar, Town.”