In his dilemma the spy turned toward the cottonwood.
He saw several British soldiers and Indians gain St. Pierre’s side.
“There! there!” cried the trader, excitedly, pointing to the twain relieved against the silvery surface of the Maumee. “See! see! Mark Morgan, Wayne’s accursed spy!”
With hideous yells, the Indians espied the brave scout, and darted forward.
A pistol flashed from Morgan’s girdle, and before the foremost savage could throw himself to the earth, he sprung into the air with a bullet in his heart.
The following moment the scout sprung from the bank, and with Effie at his side was swimming toward the conical island covered with young cottonwood and poplar that lay a short distance below in mid-stream.
“Don’t shoot!” shouted the trader, as his tomahawk knocked several directed guns from the Indians’ hands. “You might hit the girl, an’ she’s mine. He will land on the Cone, and there, as certain as death! we’ll bag our game.”
The braves set up a shout at this, and the party on shore watched the twain in the water.
The “Cone,” as the island was called, lay a short distance below the foot of the rapids, and in comparatively placid water. The scout had often visited it, and made himself acquainted with every foot of ground it contained. Its area embraced but eight acres, one-fourth of which composed a hollow, often irrigated by the Maumee.
At length Morgan’s feet touched the bottom of the stream, and, holding Effie above the water, he waded to the Cone.