Roger, with his customary impulsiveness, felt a wave of hot indignation sweep over him. This man, whom they had never sought to harm, had followed them ever since they set out from their homes on the lower Missouri, bent on saving the Armstrong property. Many times had they suffered from his persecution, and no one could really blame Roger for feeling bitterly toward the trader.
Influenced by his impulsive and headstrong nature, he hastily threw his gun up to his shoulder, and, covering the advancing Frenchman, pulled the trigger.
No report followed, which at the moment was a bitter disappointment to Roger, with his mind so set on settling the score then and there. Of course, it flashed upon him that he could not expect his gun to load itself, since he had just fired the one bullet it contained into the deer that had been used as a decoy.
With a cry of anger he turned, and, almost before Dick knew what was up, had snatched the loaded rifle from his hands, thrusting his own useless weapon into his chum’s grasp.
But the two renegades saw him do this, and realized their danger, for, though the exchange took but a couple of seconds, they had had sufficient warning to put stout trees between themselves and the angry boy.
When Roger whirled around, bent on carrying out his design, he was just in time to see Waller vanish behind a tree. It was a foregone conclusion that the quick-witted Lascelles had been even faster in his movements, since he knew well that he must be the object of the lad’s blind anger.
Indians there were in sight, running toward them, and brandishing their tomahawks and spears threateningly, at the same time dodging behind various trees as if to confuse the “palefaces.”
Evidently they feared those wonderful sticks that spat out fire, and made a sound like unto the near-by thunder, as well as mysteriously slew whatever they were pointed at.
“We must run for it, Roger!” cried Dick, seeing that it was folly to think of trying to stand off a dozen savages with but one loaded gun between them.