Tom Bent glanced about him in visible trepidation. Ouenwa noticed it, and pointed to the seaman's musket. "No 'fraid," he said. "Shoot."
"What at?" inquired Bent.
"Make shoot," cried the boy, indicating the silent wood, dusky in the gathering shadows.
"He wants you to fire into the wood, and frighten them out," said Kingswell.
"If they be there, I'm for lettin' 'em stay there," replied Tom.
However, he fixed his murderous weapon in its support, aimed at the edge of the forest beyond the wigwams, and fired. The flame cut across the twilight like a red sword; a dismal howl arose and quivered in the air. It was answered from the hilltops on both sides of the stream.
Before the echoes had died away, Ouenwa was inside the nearest lodge. Kingswell followed, and found him dismantling the couches and walls of their valuable furs. He instantly took a hand in the looting. Soon each had all he could handle. They carried their burdens from the lodge, and, with Tom as a rear-guard, marched back toward the Pelican. They had rounded the bend of the river, and the two seamen were hurrying to meet them, when old Tom Bent suddenly uttered an indignant whoop and leaped into the air. His musket flew from his shoulder and clattered against a stone. Kingswell and Ouenwa threw down their bundles and sprang to where he lay, kicking and spluttering. The feathered shaft of an arrow clung to the middle of his left thigh. He was swearing wildly, and vowing vengeance on the "heathen varment" who had pinked him.
Harding and Clotworthy fired into the shadows of the wooded hillside, and Kingswell hoisted the struggling boatswain to his shoulders and continued his advance on the boat. The old sailor begged and implored his commander to put him down, assuring him that he was more surprised than hurt. But Kingswell turned a deaf ear to his entreaties, and did not release him until they were safe beside the Pelican's bows. Just then Ouenwa and the sailors came running up with the looted pelts. All were puzzled. Why had the hidden enemy fired only one arrow, when they might have annihilated the little party with a volley?
That night the Pelican lay at anchor in the mouth of the river. Twice, during the long, eerie hours between dark and dawn, the man on duty woke his companions; but on both occasions the alarms proved to be false—the splashing of a marauding otter near the shore or the flop of a feeding trout. Under the pale lights of the morning the valley and the stream lay as peaceful and deserted as on the preceding evening. The voyagers ate their breakfast aboard. Then, as soon as the sun had cleared the light mist from the water, they got up their anchor and rowed up-stream. Harding and Clotworthy pulled on the oars. Bent and the commander crouched in the bows, with ready muskets, and Ouenwa sat at the tiller. The current was strong, and the boat crawled slowly against the twirling sinews of water. Little patches of spindrift, from some fall or rapid farther up the river, floated past them. The pebbly bottom flashed beneath the amber tide. Leaping fish gleamed and splashed on either hand, and sent silver circles rippling to the toiling boat. A moist, sweet fragrance of foliage and mould and dew filled the air.
Soon the deserted lodges came into view, standing smokeless and pathetic between the murmuring river and the brooding trees. Kingswell motioned to Ouenwa to head for the low bank in front of the wigwams. They landed without incident, and all walked toward the village, with their firearms ready and their matches lighted. They explored every lodge and even beat the underbrush. The dwellings had been cleared of pelts and weapons and cooking utensils evidently during the night. A village of this size must have possessed at least six canoes; but not a canoe, nor so much as a paddle, could they find.