The man standing amidships gave a sharp order. His crew had quit paddling in the complete confusion into which the attack had flung them. And, in a moment, the paddles dipped again, but only seven of them.
Sate passed forward to the wounded man, and his father waited, still standing, for the result of his investigations. It was some time before the youth gave a sign. But at last he dragged the fallen body into the boat and laid it out in the bottom of it.
“Well?”
The demand came sharply. But the tawny eyes were still steadily searching the wood-clad bank of the river.
“Dead.”
Sate’s reply was no less sharp.
“Drop him overboard. We’ve no room for dead men. Take the paddle yourself, Sate.” After delivering his order the man amidships turned about and spoke in a foreign tongue to the man in the stern. Instantly the prow of the vessel swung towards the shore.
Again a shot rang out. This time it was the man whose paddle had changed the vessel’s course who was the victim. He lolled forward like a tired man at the finish of the stroke of his paddle. Then he crumpled, collapsing against the man in front of him, shot through the heart.
The dusky figure was moving rapidly down the shadowed aisles of leafless tree-trunks. Its movements were almost without sound. They were the stealthy, swift movements of the Indian in pursuit of a wary quarry.