“Be ready to fight when we pass the rapids! The devils are waiting for us below, blocking the way! Don’t try to paddle, Moralle. The canoe is headed straight for the rift in the middle. It’s sure death if you show yourself.”
CHAPTER XIV.
AN INDIAN’S GRATITUDE.
Above the thunder of the falls my warning was heard and understood. Glancing back to make sure, I saw the startled faces of the two women, and the grimly-set countenance of Jim Gummidge. From the stern Moralle half-rose, looked this way and that, and made two daring strokes with the paddle. He dropped under cover again just as a volley of musket balls swept close over the canoe.
“You fool!” I shouted at him.
“I had to do it,” he yelled back. “We were swinging to the left. It’s all right now.”
“Steady! Here we go!” cried Gummidge.
I gave Flora a brief look that brought a dash of hot color to her pale cheeks, and then I turned quickly to one of my loopholes—Baptiste was gazing from the other. There was scarcely time to see anything. Like a flash I made out the little knot of painted savages on the reef to the left, and caught a blur of scarlet and copper from the shallows beyond the rapids. The next instant the turbulent waters leaped up and hid the view, and we struck the verge of the falls.