“We’re not done with the red devils,” he added. “It’s a bad scrape, Carew. I’ve no doubt the Indians have been won over by the Northwest people, and hostilities have already begun.”
On that point I did not agree with him, but I was unwilling to speak what was in my mind while Flora was listening. We were between two perils, and I called out to Moralle for his opinion.
“If the redskins are in any force it will be impossible to land and make the portage,” I said. “We are within a quarter of a mile of the rapids now. What are the chances of running them safely?”
“I have taken a canoe through them twice,” replied Moralle, “and I could do it again. That is, provided I can paddle and look where I am going. Shall I try it, sir?”
“No, not yet; wait a little,” I answered.
“I don’t like this silence,” exclaimed Gummidge. “Why did the redskins stop firing so suddenly? Mark my word, Carew, there’s a piece of deviltry brewing. I’m afraid not one of us will—”
I stopped him by a gesture, and spoke a few comforting words to Flora; her face was very white, but beyond that she showed no trace of fear. Then I crept a little past Baptiste, and with the point of my knife I hurriedly made two small holes below the gunwales of the canoe, one on each side. I peeped through both in turn, and the curve of the bow gave me as clear a view ahead as I could have wished.
What I saw partly explained the meaning of the brief silence—scarcely more than a minute had elapsed since the musket volley. Here and there, in the leafy woods to right and left I caught a glimpse of dusky, swiftly moving bodies. We were close upon the falls, and but for the noise of the tumbling waters I could have heard the scurrying feet of our determined foes.
“What do you make out?” Gummidge whispered.
“The Indians are running ahead of us through the forest,” I replied. “They expect that we will try the portage, and then they will have us in a trap. Our only chance is to dash down the rapids.”