“Where is Mayhew?” asked Dick, noting that the scout did not seem to be near.
Before Roger could frame any sort of a reply they heard a series of yells from a little distance, followed by a shot.
“He must have managed to break away, Dick,” exclaimed Roger, when he could get rid of the dirt that impeded his speaking; “and some of the Indians have followed after him. Oh, I hope he has not been killed!”
“That didn’t sound like it,” Dick told him. “There was a deal of baffled fury in those Indian yells. Mayhew may get clear away, after all. He has no equal as a runner among all the men of the expedition.”
There was no time to say more, nor were the conditions by which the two boys were surrounded of a nature to invite conversation.
Lascelles had apparently convinced those of the Indians who seemed most bent on finishing the white boys that it would be more to their advantage to hold them as prisoners or hostages, for reluctantly they dropped their uplifted weapons. That more than one of them did this under protest could be seen from the manner in which they eyed the prisoners, and shook their feather bedecked heads.
“Get up, you American swine!” said Lascelles, accompanying his remark with a kick from the toe of his moccasin.
As there was no longer a weight on his chest Roger sprang to his feet as though he had been shot up by a gigantic spring. His face was white with anger, and he would have leaped straight at the throat of the insulting French trader, despite the fact of Lascelles holding a leveled pistol in front of him, only that Dick seized hold and held him back.
“You are crazy to think of that, Roger! Have some sense. Think of those at home, and do nothing to force his hand!”
It was a terrible task for the hot-blooded boy to subside. He gave Lascelles a look that spoke volumes, but which only caused the Frenchman to grin in pleasure, for he had no idea that these boys would ever be given the chance to turn the tables on him.