Chapter VIII. The Boat Builders

Robert and Grosvenor lay, side by side, propped up partly on their elbows, their rifles thrust well forward, and watching toward the north. They were not able to see anything, save the dark outline of the forest, and a little puff of smoke rising where an Indian had fired. The wilderness itself was absolutely still but Robert's vivid imagination as usual peopled it thickly. Although his eye did not reach any human figure his mind pictured them everywhere, waiting patiently for a chance at his comrades and himself. He, more than any other of the five, realized the full extent of the danger. His extraordinary fancy pictured to him every possibility, and so his courage was all the greater, because he had the strength to face them with a tranquil mind.

A flash in the thicket and a bullet struck on a rock near Robert, glanced off and buried itself in a tree beyond them. He shivered a little. Fancy pictured the bullet not as missing, but as hitting him. Then he steadied himself, and was as ready as Willet or Black Rifle for whatever might come.

"I think that shot was fired by a sharpshooter who has crept forward ahead of the others," whispered the hunter. "He's lying behind that low bush to the west."

"I'm of your mind about it," said Black Rifle. "As soon as he reloads he'll chance another shot at where he thinks we're lying, and that will be his last."

Robert heard the low words, and he shivered again a little. He could never grow used to the taking of human life, even in dire necessity. He knew that Willet had spoken the truth, and that the red sharpshooter would fire only one more shot. Soon he had the proof. The second flash came from the same point. Again the bullet glanced among the rocks, but, before the report of the rifle died, another answered. It was that of the hunter and he found his mark. A cry came from the bush, followed by a fierce yell of anger from those farther back, and then the sinister stillness settled again over the wilderness.

"The Indian has gone!" whispered Grosvenor in an awed tone to Robert.

"Yes, Dave fired at the flash, and he never misses. The cry showed it. But it will make the warriors all the more eager to take us."

The silence lasted about a quarter of an hour, and then fire was opened upon them from three sides, bullets singing over their heads, or spattering upon the rocks.

"Lie flat, lads," commanded Willet. "This is random lead, and if we keep close to the earth 'twill all pass us by. The warriors are seldom good marksmen."

But one of the bullets, glancing from a rock, nipped Black Rifle in the shoulder. It was a very slight wound, though, and its only effect was to make him more eager to reach his enemy. In a few minutes his chance came as he caught a glimpse of a dusky but incautious figure among the trees, and, quick as a flash,