When Dave regained his senses all was dark around him and his head ached as it had never ached before. He was lying flat on his back, close to some brushwood growing beside the river. At a short distance glowed the dying embers of a camp-fire and around this the youth made out the forms of a score of Indians, four on guard and the others sleeping.

Hardly realizing what he was doing, he put forth a hand and felt the clothing of somebody beside him. With an effort he turned his head to look in the direction and weak as he was gave a start. The person was the Ranger Barringford had been carrying and he was stone dead and scalped.

Under ordinary conditions Dave would have left the place horrified. But on trying to sit up he found himself so weak that the effort was a failure and he fell back with his head in a whirl and sharp pains flashing across his eyes. He had been struck down with the flat side of a tomahawk and although his skull was not cracked it was sadly bruised.

“I am in for it now,” was his dismal thought. “If the French allow it these redskins will certainly burn me at the stake. I wonder where Sam is?”

In vain he asked himself the question. His old friend was nowhere in sight. On the other side of him lay two English soldiers, one dead like the Ranger, and the other wounded in the breast. Presently the latter began to moan piteously.

“Boys, don’t be a-leavin’ me ’ere, so far from ’ome,” he panted. “Take me with yer. An’ give me a drop of water, won’t yer?” And then he began to mumble to himself of home and of some friends he had left behind in “Lunnon town.” He was a tall, heavy-set grenadier, and his beautiful uniform was dyed deep with his life’s blood.

Dave, too, was thirsty and would have given a good deal for a drink from the river which rolled so tantalizingly near. Once he thought to call on the Indian guard, but then grated his teeth and remained silent.

“They would only kick me for disturbing them,” he reasoned, and truthfully. “They are only leaving me alive so that they may torture me. Oh, if only I knew what had become of Sam!”

Slowly the night wore away until with the first streak of dawn the camp was astir. Dave had fallen into a light doze from which he was aroused by an Indian raising him up on the end of his moccasin.

“White dog get up!” ordered the Indian, darkly. “Sleep heap too much.”

“I’ll get up if I can,” answered Dave, and did his best to pull himself together. It was hard work and as he stood on his feet his head spun around and around. He clutched at the tree behind him and sank down again.

The Indian muttered something under his breath and went back to his companions. Probably he thought the young soldier was going to die and he wanted to know if he had not better scalp Dave then and there and leave him where he fell.

But now a shouting was heard at a distance, and presently a dozen or more Indians came rushing into the camp, followed by twice that number of French soldiers. They had found a body of English grenadiers in the woods half a mile back of the river,—soldiers who had failed to get back to the main army.

Here was a fresh quarry for the bloodthirsty red men, and forgetting about Dave and the wounded grenadier beside him, they took up their arms and made off, the French soldiers with them.

“Gone!” muttered the young soldier, when the last of the enemy had vanished from the glade. “If only they don’t come back!”

“Come back?” came from the grenadier, wildly. “They must come back! They mustn’t let poor Peter Chanter die like this. Take me ’ome, boys! No more of the King’s shilling for me! Take me ’ome!” And he continued to rave, being now out of his head for the want of care and nourishment.

The day was one Dave never forgot. A storm was at hand and the breeze swept mournfully through the giant trees and through the dense brushwood. The birds, frightened by the fierce shooting of the day before, had flown, and the wild animals had likewise taken themselves off. From a great distance came an occasional shot.

Crawling on hands and knees, Dave took his way to the edge of the river and at the risk of plunging in, procured a drink and bathed his aching head. All the while the wounded grenadier kept moaning and talking wildly, and crying for a drink. With a great effort the young soldier filled his cup for him and he drained it with strange gulpings.

“Thank you, Bob!” he murmured. “Thank ye, old boy. When we gits ’ome, I’ll make it right with yer, Bob.” And then he sank back as if to sleep. He never stirred afterward.

At last the dull day faded away as it had come. The heavy raindrops came pattering on the leaves of the trees and presently struck upon Dave’s upturned face, for the young soldier was once more resting flat on his back, with his head clasped in his hands. A frightened squirrel came hopping back to his former haunts. Catching sight of Dave, he sat up and stared for a moment, then vanished as he had come.

The youth was now hungry and feeling a little stronger, crawled over to where the Indians had had their camp-fire. Here he found the remains of some corn cake and a bit of meat which he devoured slowly and painfully. The rain furnished him with water to wash down the scanty food, and again he slept.

When Dave awoke he felt surprisingly stronger and got up with scarcely an effort. He saw that the grenadier was dead and could not help but shudder. How awful to travel so many miles across the ocean and then meet a fate like this!

Where should he turn? What should he do? These were the questions he asked himself, over and over again, without arriving at any satisfactory answer. He knew that the day had been lost to the English, that Braddock was shot down, and that Washington had taken command in one last effort to save the remnant of the troops from annihilation. But where were Washington and the other soldiers? Where was Sam Barringford?

“They must be retreating eastward,” he reasoned, at last. “That would be the only way for them to go. I’ll have to go likewise, and be careful I don’t fall into the clutches of those redskins again.”

The thought had scarcely crossed his mind when he saw a sight that filled him first with dismay and then with joy. Three Indians were coming along the river, directly toward the glade. He felt they must be enemies. But as they drew closer he recognized White Buffalo and two followers.

“White Buffalo!” he cried, with all the strength he could command.

“Who calls?” was the instant question, and the Indians leaped behind the trees.

“It is I, White Buffalo, Dave Morris! I am alone, so you have nothing to fear.”

Upon hearing this White Buffalo ran forward and was soon at Dave’s side. He was pleased to learn that the young soldier was not dangerously wounded and had one of his followers bind Dave’s head up in a mash made of healing herbs.

“The English have gone back,” said the Indian chief. “They lost many soldiers and would have lost more had it not been for Washington. He carries a charmed life and the enemy cannot kill him. They are safe on the retreat.”

“And what brings you here?”

“’Tis a strange thing—more strange since I have met you. I came to look for the white boy’s father.”

“My father?” ejaculated Dave. “Is he here?”

“I hoped to find him here. In the great battle I met Yellow Ear, who was once at the trading-post with your father. He is a dog of a Miami and I fell upon him and wounded him greatly. To save his life he told me of your father, who had been a prisoner at the fort. Your father had escaped and was in this wilderness. So White Buffalo came to look for him—and found his son.”

“In this wilderness! My father!” murmured Dave. “And have you found any trace of him yet?”

“White Buffalo has not.”

“Was he in the fight?”

“Who can tell that? White Buffalo will look for him—he can do no more.”

“And I will help look—if I can walk. Tell me, have you seen anything of Sam Barringford?”

The Indian chief shook his head. “They are all gone—this part of the wilderness is deserted,” he said.

His words, however, were not true, for scarcely had he spoken when a rifle shot rang out and one of his followers fell, mortally wounded. The shot came from across the river, and looking in that direction Dave and the others saw four Indians behind the brushwood. Leaping quickly to the shelter of the trees, White Buffalo and his remaining follower fired and one enemy fell. Then of a sudden came two shots from further up the stream and two more of the enemy went down. At this the fourth Indian turned and fled into the bushes and they heard him crashing along until the sounds lost themselves in the distance.

“Hullo! are you English up thar!” came the unexpected cry.

“It is Sam Barringford’s voice,” exclaimed Dave. “Sam! Sam!” he called, with all the strength he could muster. “Come this way, Sam! It is Dave Morris and White Buffalo!”

“Wall, I never!” ejaculated the old hunter, and in a moment came more crashing of bushes and Barringford leaped into the glade. Behind him came another white man, gun in hand, and clothed in tattered buckskin. He limped as he ran and his forehead was bandaged up in a handkerchief.

“Father!” was all Dave could say and tottered forward to meet his parent, who caught him in his arms. “Father!”

“Dave, my son!” cried James Morris, joyfully. “How wonderful! I never dreamed of this!”

“Nor I father, although White Buffalo was just telling me about you. You have been a prisoner at the fort.”

“Yes, I’ve been there a long time—ever since Bevoir got the French and Indians to attack the post. They were going to ship me to Canada on the day I gave the guards the slip and got away. But you are wounded.”

“Yes, and so are you.”

“I was in a good deal of the fighting day before yesterday and a bullet grazed my temple. I fell into the river and was almost drowned. When I recovered, I ran across Barringford, who said he had been with you, but the Indians had separated you and him and he was wounded in the side shortly afterward. Both of us lay low in the bushes until we started up the stream to look for you. Barringford saw White Buffalo just about the time those Indians fired into your party, and we made up our mind to come to the rescue.”