The discovery of John Darknight’s treachery and his escape filled the hearts of the fugitives with terror. The little band found themselves in the forest at the foot of the Maumee rapids, and with many miles stretching their perilous length between them and Wayne’s camp.

Little Moccasin, too, had deserted without a word of explanation, and several members of the party were inclined to believe her as treacherous as the English guide.

George Darling, the nephew, was especially bitter in his denunciation of the girl, and in this he was seconded by young Carl Merriweather. The two resolved to keep on the lookout for her reappearance, and to shoot her on sight. They firmly believed that her coming to the camp had been prearranged by John Darknight himself, and saw in the desertion of both the successful working of the plot.

In the brief and deeply interesting council that followed the double abandonment, the fugitives resolved to prosecute their journey without delay. Of course the boat could not stem the strong rapids, therefore it would have to be transported to a point above them, and that upon the shoulders of the men.

The craft, while it was strong and capable of carrying eight or ten people, was unusually light, and when Merriweather and Oscar Parton raised it to their shoulders, they declared with joy that they could carry it all day without a rest.

The fugitives did not resume their journey until a frugal breakfast had been discussed on the scene of the night’s encampment. At that meal no one seemed to be communicative; the thought of the present peril or the shadow of the impending danger appeared to seal their lips.

Abel Merriweather doubtless regretted leaving the cabin home at the mouth of the Maumee, and upbraided himself for having listened to the representations of the false guide.

In Oscar Parton’s mind one particular thought was uppermost—the safety of Kate Merriweather. Now and then he coupled with it a strong desire to deal with the man who had led them into the trap.

The sun was silvering the waves of the river when the boat was lifted from the ground, and the journey resumed.

The little party kept from the stream for fear of being seen by any foes, but near enough to hear any voice which might arise from its banks.

They indulged in the fond hope of encountering some of Wayne’s scouts who were known to be scouting in the vicinity, and the settler trusted that he would fall in with Wells, with whom he was intimately acquainted. But the sun approached his meridian without bringing incident or misfortune to the little band who pushed resolutely through the forest toward the distant goal.

“Are you ready to fulfill your part of the promise, George?” said Carl Merriweather to his cousin at the noonday rest held beneath the shade of a great tree.

George Darling looked up and saw the youth’s face glowing with excitement. His eyes seemed to emit sparks of fire.

“What do you mean, Carl?” he said.

“Why, what we promised one another this morning—that we would kill the first redskin we laid our eyes on.”

“Yes. Where is one?”

“Come with me.”

George Darling rose, and the two left the camp together.

“There be two of them,” the settler’s son said, “and they are at the river; I saw them not five minutes since. A good shot, George. I’ll take one, you the other.”

The eager couple glided toward the river, and the youth all at once pulled his cousin’s sleeve and told him to halt.

“There they are!” he cried excitedly, pointing towards the stream. “Look! do you not see them in the tree top? Real Indians, George, and no mistake. What on earth can they be doing? They are up to their knees in water.”

George Darling did not reply, but continued to gaze at the two persons in the tree top which lay in the water. Their skin proclaimed them savages; but they seemed to be washing—a thing which no Indian warrior ever does. Hence the spectators’ perplexity.

“Come, George, we can’t wait on them,” said the impatient Carl. “Beside, they will miss us at the camp. Now, let us give the rascals a little lead. Remember our promise to let no Indian escape our rifles.”

The young man heard his cousin, and, a partaker of his excitement, grasped his rifle.

“The little fellow on the right,” Carl said without taking his eyes from the couple in the tree top. “Leave the other one for me. He is as tall as a Virginia bean-pole.”

The victims of the pair were not fifty yards away. Unconscious of the presence of their enemies.

They kept on performing motions with their arms and hands, which had led Darling to believe that they were patronizing the homely art of washing.

“Ready?” whispered the boy.

“Ready!” I’ve covered my man was the low but distinct response.

There was a moment’s silence. The word “fire” was struggling for utterance on Carl Merriweather’s lips when his cousin’s hand leaped from the trigger and covered the flint of his weapon.

“Look at the tall fellow,” cried the young backwoodsman. “By the snows of Iceland! he’s a white man.”

Sure enough, one of the occupants of the tree had suddenly risen to his feet and turned his face towards the depths of the forest. The skin which had been red was white now. Water had metamorphosed him into his true character.

Carl Merriweather grew pale when he saw the transformation, and gave his companion a look which made him smile.

“Both are white!” Darling said. “The short one has washed his face. See!”

“That is true,” said Carl. “A moment more, and we would have sent bullets into their brains. Who can they be? Rascally renegades, no doubt, and as such deserve our balls.”

“More likely Wayne’s scouts,” replied the settler’s nephew. “They often disguise themselves as Indians, and reassume their true character when it suits them. They are leaving the tree now.”As the young man spoke the twain emerged from the tree top, and approached the brow of the hill.

One was much taller than his companion, and his face looked sad and careworn. Both carried rifles, and tomahawks peeped above their deerskin belts.

They cut a strange figure with white hands and faces, but with shoulders copper-colored, like the Indians’. Their scanty garments were of genuine Indian manufacture, and tufts of feathers, daubed with ochre and sienna, crowned their heads.

“They mean mischief,” Carl Merriweather suddenly exclaimed. “Don’t let them get to camp if they are really enemies; don’t let them see how weak we are.”

A moment later George Darling rose and spoke to the advancing couple:

“Friends or enemies?” he cried.

The strangers executed a sudden halt, and hastily cocking their rifles, looked about for the speaker. But the young man was not easily seen, for his body was screened by a tree.

“Friends or enemies?” he repeated. “You can’t advance until you have told us.”

“Friends, of course,” was the response by the youngest of the twain. “You belong to Abel Merriweather’s family, and we are attached to Wayne’s command.”

“Thank God!” cried Carl Merriweather, springing from his place of concealment and hastening toward the new comers.

“You saved your lives by washing the paint from your faces. What are your names?”

“Mine is Harvey Catlett and my friend’s is Abner Stark; but every where they call him Wolf Cap,” was the reply.

“And you are Mad Anthony’s scouts? Glory!” the overjoyed youth shouted, and then George Darling managed to get a word in.

“You are very welcome,” he said. “Heaven knows that we need your assistance. Did you know we were here?”

“We did,” said young Catlett, “and as we feared that you might send a bullet into the first red face that greeted you, we thought best to make ours white before making your acquaintance.”

“Thank God for that,” responded Darling fervently, and he shuddered when he thought how nearly he had taken the life of a succoring friend.

It was with joy that the youths led the scouts into the forest.

They felt that great assistance had been sent them from on high.