Our first thought was that we had blundered into an ambuscade and that the bluffs to right and left of us swarmed with redskins. Our little column stopped short, confused and panic-stricken, and for a brief instant we stood huddled in the narrow valley like sheep. Our muskets were lifted, but no foes were insight; we expected a withering fusillade to be poured into our ranks.

“They’ve got us, boys!” cried Tom Arnold, who was staring in all directions while he held his wounded arm.

But the silence remained unbroken—and I began to hope that our alarm was groundless—at least, so far as an ambuscade was concerned. Just where the shot had been fired from I could not tell, for the wind had quickly drifted the smoke away; but as I watched alertly I detected a slight movement in the evergreen-clad face of the hill on the left, at a point some distance ahead, and about twenty feet from the ground.

“There is only one redskin,” was my instant reflection, “and he is loading for another shot.”

My gun was at mid-shoulder, and I did not hesitate a second. Taking swift aim at the spot, I pulled the trigger. The loud report was followed by a screech; then the bushes parted, and an Indian pitched out headforemost, landing with a thud in the soft snow.

“Good shot!” cried Arnold. “One red devil the less! But what can the others be about?”

“It’s doubtful if there are any more,” said I.

“By Heavens, Carew I believe you are right!” shouted Captain Rudstone. “We’ve had a scare for nothing. This follow was certainly alone, or his comrades would have blazed away at us before this. I fancied I saw him stir just now—if he’s not dead, we may get some information out of him.” With that the captain started toward the fallen Indian, keeping his musket ready and darting keen glances right and left. I would have followed him, but at sight of Arnold’s pale face I changed my mind. His left arm was bleeding profusely below the shoulder, and three or four of his men were standing about him.

“Is the bone hit?” I inquired anxiously.

“No; it’s only a flesh wound,” Arnold replied. “But I can’t afford to lose much more blood. Fix me up, some of you fellows.”

Just then Christopher Burley pushed in among us, his countenance agitated and frightened.

“Is the danger over?” he cried.

“Are there no more Indians in the hills?”

Before I could answer him I was tapped on the shoulder, and turning round I saw Flora; she had left the sledge, and her eyes looked into mine calmly and fearlessly.

“Do not be alarmed,” I said. “It seems there was but one Indian.”

“I was afraid we were going to be attacked,” she answered; “but I am not a bit frightened now. See, my hand is steady. Let me bandage this poor man’s wound, Denzil.”

The plucky girl did not wait for permission, but took a knife from one of the men and began to cut away Arnold’s shirt sleeve. I had a large handkerchief in my pocket, which I produced and gave to her. Meanwhile I glanced forward to Captain Rudstone, who was kneeling beside the Indian, with his back turned to us. I saw him look quickly and furtively over his shoulder, and his hands seemed to be actively engaged. I noted this, as I say, but at the time I thought nothing of the incident.

A moment later the captain rose to his feet and turned round. He met my eyes, and his own dropped; for a passing second he looked slightly confused.

“Here’s a queer go, Carew,” he called. “You’ve killed your man, and I fancy there is something on him that will be of personal interest to you.”

I hurried to the spot, in company with half a dozen others. The Indian lay dead on his side—an elderly, wrinkled savage with a feathered scalp-lock, dressed in buffalo robe, leggings and beaded moccasins. His musket was clutched in his hand, and blood was oozing from a wound in the region of the heart.

“What do you mean, Rudstone?” I asked.

He pointed silently to the redskin’s throat and bending closer, I saw a necklace of the teeth and claws of wild beasts. Something else was strung with it—a tiny locket of smooth gold—and the sight of it made my heart leap. With a single jerk, I tore the necklace loose, and the locket fell in the snow. I picked it up, looked at it sharply, and suspicion became a certainty.

“This is the working of Providence!” I cried hoarsely, “I have committed an act of just retribution. Look: the Indian killed my father nearly six years ago, and now he has died by my hand.”

“I suspected as much,” said Captain Rudstone. “I remembered your speaking of a locket that your father always carried, and that was missing from his body.”

“This is the locket,” I replied. “I know it well! And here lies the murderer! Thank Heaven, I have avenged my father’s death!”

“There is doubtless something in it,” suggested the captain. “Most likely a miniature portrait.”

He looked me straight in the eyes as he spoke, and with an expression of calm curiosity.

“It is the use to which such trinkets are usually put,” he added. “I am glad you have recovered it, Carew. It is a memento to be prized and treasured.”

By this time all of the party were gathered around me; Arnold’s wound had been tightly and deftly bandaged, and the flow of blood checked. A whisper of my strange discovery ran from mouth to mouth, and Flora pressed my arm in silent sympathy. There was a solemn hush, and every eye was on me as I fingered the locket in search of a spring, for I knew it opened that way. I must have touched the spot by accident, for of a sudden the trinket flew open. But the inside was quite empty. I could not repress a little cry of disappointment.

“Strange!” muttered Captain Rudstone “I was sure the locket held something! You say you never knew what your father kept in it, Carew?”

“No, he never spoke of it,” I replied. “It was rarely I caught a glimpse of it, though I knew that he always wore it.”

“Have you reason to believe that he kept anything in it?” asked Christopher Burley.

“To tell the truth, sir, I have not,” I answered.

“Ah, that lets light on the matter,” said the captain. “The trinket is probably treasured for itself—for the sake of some old association connected with it.”

“That is very likely,” I assented. “At all events, it is empty now.”

Christopher Burley begged to be allowed to examine the locket, and after a close scrutiny he handed it back to me.

“This is a very curious case, Mr. Carew,” he said, speaking in dry and legal tones. “It resolves itself into two issues. In the first place, the locket may have been empty when your father wore it. In the second place it may have contained something. But if we take the latter for granted, what became of the contents? It is extremely unlikely that the Indian could have found the spring, or, indeed, suspected that the bit of gold was hollow.”

“Which goes to prove,” put in Captain Rudstone, “that the trinket has been restored to Mr. Carew in the same condition in which it was torn from his father’s body. The redskin prized it merely as a glittering adornment to his barbaric necklace.”

“I agree with you,” said I, “and I think it is time we closed so trivial a discussion. Justice has been done and I am satisfied.”

With that I thrust the locket deep into my pocket. “There is another thing,” said Captain Rudstone; “why did the Indian fire on us? He may have been scouting in advance of a hostile force.”

“I do not think we are in any danger,” I replied. “Indeed, I can offer a solution to the mystery. After my father’s death the murderer was sought for, but his own tribe spirited him away, and I believe he fled to the far West. His relatives declared at the time that he had gone crazy on account of a blow on the head, and believed he had a mission to kill white men. This was likely true. And now, after a lapse of five years, the fellow wandered back to this neighborhood and fired on us at sight.”

Such was my earnest conviction, and for the most part the rest agreed with me. But Tom Arnold was inclined to be skeptical, and shook his head gravely.

“You may be right, my boy,” he said, “but I’m a cautious man, and I don’t think overmuch of your argument. Leastways, the chances are even that your dead Indian belonged to the party who took Fort Royal, and that the whole body is marching on Fort Charter. So off we go for a rapid march, and let every man put his best foot forward.”

“Under any circumstances,” I replied, “whether we are in danger or not, we ought to reach the fort as soon as possible, and at the best we can’t make it before midnight.”

So a little later we were traveling south again, surmounting by the aid of snowshoes, all the rugged difficulties of the wintry wilderness. Flora was strapped on the sledge as before, and we had left the dead Indian—for whose fate I felt not the least compunction—lying where he had fallen.

We marched on for two hours, and then our fear of the weather proved to be well founded. A furious snowstorm came on suddenly, and a violent wind whirled the flakes into our faces; the cold grew intense, and we could not see a yard ahead of us. A more terrific blizzard we had none of us known in the past.

For a little while we floundered on resolutely, blinded and half-frozen, becoming more exhausted each minute. The storm seemed to be getting worse, and we encountered great drifts. There was not a sign by which we could steer in the right direction, and we could not be sure that we were not traveling in a circle.

“Hold on, boys; this won’t do!” Tom Arnold cried at last. “We can’t go any farther. We must find shelter and lie close until the morning, or until the weather takes a turn.”