Snap went an oar!
A cry of horror rung from the captain’s throat, and he tried to use the broken paddle, but without effect.
The boat began to become unmanageable, and he tried to guide it ashore with the sound oar, swearing like a trooper all the time.
“Didn’t I say that nothing but death could separate us?” he asked, darting Huldah a look of despair. “I’m Zebulon Strong—don’t forget that. I’m a traitor, too, and a devil!”
The canoe struck the bank at last, and the captain looked at his followers, now within rifle-shot. He saw three weapons leveled at his breast; but he was shielding it with the girl, and they dared not shoot.
“Drop the girl!” came a voice from the boat.
Strong greeted it with a laugh.
“I’m no fool!” he cried. “I’m Zebulon Strong, I am. So good-by, boys! we’ll meet again, mebbe,” and he waved his hat at the occupants of the boat, then sprung into the forest.
A minute after his disappearance, the trio reached the spot and sprung upon his trail. They were Wolf-Cap, Mark Harmon and an Indian well known to the reader, as Silver Hand. Already the traitor and his prize had vanished among the trees, and his trail led toward the spot where Colonel O’Neill had lately surprised the Night-Hawks’ camp.
Undoubtedly the captain knew but little of the intricacies of the wood he was treading; perhaps he was bewildered, for he was running from Detroit, having turned his back upon the walls surmounted by the British flag.