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Updated: August 25, 2024
"Help!" cried Nellie, and a moment later Pawnee Brown burst into view. A glance showed him the true situation, and without hesitation he fired at Yellow Elk. His bullet clipped across the redskin's chest. By this time Yellow Elk had his own pistol out, and standing erect he aimed straight for the boomer's heart.
Every shot went to a redskin's heart, impelled by the powder for which a brave girl had offered her life, guided by hands and arms of iron, and aimed by eyes as fixed and stern as Fate, every bullet shed the life-blood of a warrior. Slowly and sullenly the red men gave way before that fire. Foot by foot they retired. Girty was seen no more.
The redskin's head hit the roof. His shriek of agony could have been heard half a mile. He clapped hands to the afflicted part and did a humped-up dance of woe. The carving-knife lay forgotten on the floor. It was quite certain that he would take no pleasure in sitting down for some few days. Again a series of spasms of turbulent mirth seized upon his friends. They doubled up with glee.
This theory, however, did not sound reasonable, and the lad was unsatisfied; whatever the cause of the redskin's erratic conduct, his captive could not explain it. For a half hour the warrior was as mute and motionless as the oak against which the fire had been kindled. All that time, he sat six or eight feet from the flames and about the same distance from the captive.
We may be a long way off, but there's no saying how far a redskin's eyes can carry. Can you see where they are going to, chief?" he asked the Seneca. "Are they heading for Isle-aux-Noix, as we heard 'em say they were going to do?" The Seneca nodded. "Going to island." "Then," Peter said, "the sooner we're across the lake the better."
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