Here he stopped and crouched, and a moment later a heavy body leaped upon him.
He went to the ground at full length beneath the assaulter, and a brief struggle followed—a struggle in which the chief turned the tables and bore his antagonist back.
His left hand griped a slender throat, when a sudden writhing of his foe threw a sleeve across his face.
With a cry of surprise he partly released the grip, and bent forward.
“Artena,” he cried.
The other gasped a moment for breath, and then faintly uttered his name.
“Heavens! girl, how near you have been to the dark river,” he said. “It makes me shudder to think of it, and I fancy that Cohoon would not spare his chief if his hand were to send Artena to the hunting-lands of her people.”
The mention of the Indian’s name startled the girl.
“Did Donald cross Cohoon’s trail?” she asked.
“No.”