“Gray Moose!” I cried hoarsely. “Is this your gratitude? Don’t you know me?”
The merciless aspect of the savage’s countenance softened. With a guttural grunt he leaped forward and gazed at me hard. Then he lowered his musket and said quickly:
“Pantherfoot!”
“Ay, Pantherfoot,” I replied. “Do I deserve death at your hands?”
“The white man is my brother,” said the Indian. “I knew not that he would be here, else I would have refused to take the war-path. I have listened to words of evil.”
“And you will save us all?” I cried.
For answer, Gray Moose turned to his braves, who were whooping like fiends and firing an occasional shot, and shouted a few words to them in the native tongue. In a moment more—almost before I could realize my good fortune, every Indian had melted away into the forest. I heard Mackenzie cry out with baffled rage and furiously curse his recreant allies. Then a silence fell, broken only by the dull roar of the falls.
I waded to the shore, and placed Flora’s trembling and half-unconscious form against a tree. Baptiste quickly joined me; he had escaped from his pursuers, and had seen the whole affair from his hiding-place in the thick timber. Gummidge and his wife were clinging to the bowlders in midstream, and with some difficulty they joined us. But Lavigne had disappeared and poor Moralle lay motionless on the opposite bank, apparently dead. Cuthbert Mackenzie’s villainy had cost us dear.