“Now, Bob,” exclaimed Joseph, springing to his feet.
Both boys immediately jumped up and taking quick aim fired into the bush whence the bullets had come. Then they once more dodged behind the sheltering log. A shrill cry at that moment startled them, however, and looking up they saw Deerfoot, knife in hand, charging the spot where their enemy was located. He uttered the war whoop of the Pottowattomies and it was this that the boys had heard.
“We mustn’t let him go alone,” cried Robert, and as he spoke the two young woodsmen dashed forward to lend what assistance they could to their ally.
There was nothing for them to do, however, when they reached the bush. Stretched upon the ground lay the Indian who had so nearly succeeded in shooting and perhaps killing one of the three. Hideous he looked in his gaudy war paint, smeared as he was with it from head to foot. One glance was sufficient to convince the two brothers that their foe was dead, and it was hard for them to repress a shudder, as they looked at the cruel face on the ground before them, and realized what might have been their fate had they fallen into the hands of such an enemy.
“Deerfoot, you mustn’t do that!” exclaimed Joseph suddenly.
Knife in hand Deerfoot was busily engaged in scalping his fallen foe. As Joseph spoke, their Indian ally muttered something, but did not stop the work in which he was engaged.
“Deerfoot—” began Joseph again, when Robert interrupted him.
“Let him alone, Joe,” he cautioned in a low voice. “It is his custom to do that and he won’t like it if we stop him.”
“I guess you’re right,” agreed Joseph. “I can’t look at him, though,” and he turned his back on the revolting scene being enacted on the ground at his feet. The two young pioneers withdrew a short distance and waited for Deerfoot to join them.
“That was a lucky shot that one of us made,” remarked Joseph.
“I should say so,” agreed Robert, who was busily engaged in reloading his gun. “I wonder which one of us hit him.”
“I know I didn’t see him when I fired,” said Joseph. “I just aimed at the bush and trusted to luck.”
“The same thing I did,” exclaimed Joseph.
“Well, as long as we were successful it doesn’t make much difference who it was that hit him, I guess,” said Robert.