With Boone on the frontier

It filled Joe’s heart with a nameless dread to see his sister being thus carried off by an Indian he knew was as cruel as he was bloodthirsty.

“I must save her,” was his thought. “I must save her, no matter what the cost!”

In haste he shoved his canoe back to the bank and called softly to Harry.

“What do you want, Joe?” asked his chum, in an equally low tone of voice.

In a few hurried words the situation was explained. “Tell father I have gone after the pair,” Joe added.

Without more conversation, Joe started his canoe forward again, and was soon on the river and in pursuit of the other canoe, which was now a hundred yards or more ahead.

By the aid of the torch in the bow he kept Long Knife’s craft in view with ease, while his own canoe was invisible to the red man on account of the rain and the darkness.

As he crept closer Joe could hear his sister begging piteously of the Indian to let her go back to Mrs. Parsons.

“Please, please, let me go back!” cried Harmony. “Oh, have you no heart?”

“White maiden be quiet,” growled Long Knife. “Can talk much after she is in Long Knife’s wigwam.”

“I do not want to go to your wigwam,” moaned the girl. “I want to go back to the lady I was with.”

“Bah! the old Quaker woman does not count,” was Long Knife’s comment. “She is not as good as the squaw that shall take care of the white maiden.”

“I don’t want any squaw to take care of me,” answered Harmony, and then fell to weeping silently.

So far Joe had formed no plan of rescue. Long Knife had dropped his hold of the girl and was now paddling vigorously with both hands, and it was all the young pioneer could do to keep him in sight.

When about half a mile of the river had been covered, they came to a spot where there was something of a lake. Here Long Knife paddled with less speed and Joe came closer rapidly.

In the canoe the youth had the bow and arrows made for him by Pep Frost, and also a stout club he had cut for himself.

“I wish I had a gun instead of the bow,” he thought. “I’d soon knock him over as he deserves.”

Picking up the bow and an arrow Joe adjusted the latter with care. Harmony had sunk to the bottom of the canoe, while Long Knife stood upright, trying, by the flare of the torch, to find a suitable landing.

The canoes were now not over a hundred feet apart. With a strong use of the paddle the young pioneer sent his craft thirty or forty feet closer. Then he leaped to the bow and aimed the arrow with all the accuracy at his command.

Whiz! the arrow shot forth, and had the object at which it was aimed not moved at that instant Long Knife would have received the shaft straight under the shoulder blade. But just then the canoe bumped on a part of the bank that was under water, and the Indian pitched slightly forward, which caused the shaft to graze his shoulder and his neck.

“What is the white maiden doing?” he cried in his native tongue, as he grasped the bow of the canoe to keep from going overboard.

Harmony did not answer, for she did not understand the question. But she saw the arrow before it caught the eye of the Indian, and turning to see who fired it, discovered her brother and set up a cry of joy.

“Oh, Joe! Joe! Save me!”

“I will if I can,” he answered, and reached for another arrow.

By this time Long Knife had recovered and was peering forth into the gloom to learn from what point the attack was coming, and how many of the whites were at hand.

It must be admitted that Joe was excited, and his hand trembled somewhat as he adjusted the second arrow and let it fly without stopping to take a careful aim.

But the hand of Providence was in that shot, and Long Knife was taken fairly and squarely in the breast.

The wound was not a mortal one, but it was enough to take all the fight out of the Indian. With a groan of pain he fell in the bow of the canoe. Then, fearing another shot, or perhaps a blow from a hunting knife, he slipped overboard, staggered ashore, and disappeared in the total darkness of the forest.

“Oh, Joe!” These were the only words that Harmony could utter, but as the two canoes glided together, she arose and threw her arms around her brother’s neck.

Just then the brother uttered no reply to this warm greeting. He had seen Long Knife disappear into the forest, and he did not know but that the Indian might return to the attack almost immediately.

Two steps took him to the bow of the other canoe, and with a handful of water he dashed out the light of the torch. Then he seized the paddle and began to work the craft out into midstream, shoving the other canoe along at the same time.

But Long Knife was in no condition to attack anybody, and soon the dim outline of the shore faded from view. Then Joe tied the smaller craft fast to the larger, and transferred his bow and arrows and club to the latter. He bent over his sister, and in the midst of the wind and the rain he kissed her.

“It was a close shave, Harmony,” he said. His heart was too full to say more.

“Oh, Joe!” She clung to him tightly. “Was it not terrible? Supposing he had carried me off, miles and miles away?”

“Don’t make too much noise, Harmony—there may be redskins all along this river bank.”

“Do you know anything of father and mother?”

“I was with father when I discovered you in the canoe with Long Knife. He and Pep Brown and Harry Parsons were all with me, and we were getting ready to do what we could to rescue you and Mrs. Parsons. I don’t know anything about mother.”

“She was carried off by two of the Indians—Mrs. Parsons saw it done.”

“It’s queer the redskins separated.”

“The attack was made by two tribes, one under Long Knife, and the other under an Indian called Red Feather, a horrible-looking savage with a broken nose.”

“I haven’t seen anything of that savage. But now we had best keep quiet, Harmony, for we are getting close to the Indian camp again.”

Joe was right. Caught by the current of the river the two canoes were drifting down the stream rapidly. The rain still descended steadily although not as heavily as before.

So far no sound had reached them from the vicinity of the camp where Mrs. Parsons was still held a captive, but now a distant shout could be heard, followed by a war-whoop, and then two gun shots.

“Some sort of an attack is on!” cried the boy. “I trust our side wins out.”

“Oh, so do I, Joe. Did you say father and Mr. Frost had guns?”

“Yes, and they most likely fired those two shots. Hark to the war-whoops! The redskins are making it lively. I’d like to know if Harry is in that mix-up.”

Joe turned the canoes toward the river bank, and after a careful survey of the locality discovered the spot where he had left his chum.

“Harry!” he called softly. “Harry!”

No answer came back, and with caution he shoved the leading canoe through the brushwood toward the bank.

“Keep quiet, Harmony, while I try to find out how the fight is going,” he said, and leaped ashore, hunting knife in hand.

“Oh, Joe, don’t leave me,” she pleaded, but he was already gone.

It was an easy matter to crawl to the vicinity of the Indian camp from where the canoes lay hidden. The whooping and the shots had ended as suddenly as they had begun.

Suddenly Joe stumbled over the dead body of an Indian, still warm, and with blood flowing from a wound in the breast. The discovery was a shock to the young pioneer, and he felt a great desire to jump up and fly from the scene.

Hardly had he made this discovery than he ran across Harry, leaning against a tree, gasping for breath.

“Harry,” he cried, and caught his chum just as he was about to fall in a heap. “Where are you hit?”

“Some—somebody struck me in the—the stomach with a—a—club,” was the gasped-out reply. “Oh!” And then Harry sank like a lump of lead.

Without stopping to think twice Joe picked up the form of his chum and started for the canoes once more. It was a heavy load, but the excitement of the moment gave the youth added strength.

“Who is there?” called Harmony, through the rain.

“I’ve got Harry, Harmony. He has been hit with a club.”

“And father and Mr. Frost?”

“I don’t know where they are.”

But scarcely had the young pioneer spoken when there came a rush of footsteps, and Pep Frost appeared on the scene, closely followed by Ezra Winship, who carried the unconscious form of Mrs. Parsons.

“Father!” burst from the girl’s lips.

“My daughter!” ejaculated the astonished parent. “How did you get here? I thought that Long Knife had carried you off in a canoe.”

“So he did, but Joe came after me and brought me back, after knocking Long Knife over with two arrows.”

“Got two canoes, eh?” came from Pep Frost. “By gum, but they air jest wot we need. In ye go, all of ye, an’ quick!”

But little more was said. All leaped into the canoes, taking the unconscious woman and boy with them. Then they shoved off into the river.

They were not a moment too soon, for as the darkness swallowed them up they heard the Indians in the brushwood, running forward and backward along the bank, and calling guardedly to each other. They did not imagine that the whites had the boats, and supposed they must be in hiding, most likely half in and half out of the water.

Not knowing what else to do the whites headed the two canoes up the stream for a short distance and then landed on the opposite shore, at a point where some walls of rock seemed to promise a little shelter from the driving rain.

As they went ashore Mrs. Parsons recovered her senses, for she had merely fainted from the excitement.

“What has happened to me?” she asked faintly.

“Don’t worry, you are now safe, Mistress Parsons,” answered Ezra Winship.

“Providence be praised for it!” responded the Quakeress piously. Then her gaze fell upon her son and she uttered a slight shriek. “Harry! Oh, tell me not that he is killed!”

“No, he isn’t dead,” answered Joe. And shortly after that Harry sat up, declaring that he was all right excepting that his stomach felt very sore.

“We knocked over three o’ the redskins,” said Pep Frost. “Then the rest dug fer the woods an’ we rushed in and freed Mrs. Parsons. But it was a lively fight, and I don’t know as we air out o’ it yet,” he added significantly.