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 "Faith, let's hope there aren't Injuns there, too," quoth Sergeant Pat. "It's a likely place for an ambush."

"Hardly stands to reason there'd be elk whar there are Injuns," remarked Alec Willard.

Everybody waited anxiously; gazed and listened. Two rifle-shots were heard, distant.

"There's meat, I reckon," said Alec.

Presently another shot; and in about ten minutes out from the willow brush and to the sandy shore burst Captain Lewis. He was running, limping, staggering—he'd been wounded—the left thigh of his leather breeches was stained red!

"To your arms, boys!" cried Sergeant Pat.

Captain Lewis staggered on, to the white pirogue.

"I've been shot, men," he panted. "Not mortally, I think. Indians are in that thicket. Cruzatte is somewhere there, too."

"Did you see any Injuns, cap'n?"

"No; the ball came from ambush, just as I was aiming at an elk. Gass, take the men and follow me. We must rescue Cruzatte. I'd lost sight of him."

"Willard, you and the two Fields," roared Pat, springing into the shallows. "The bloody Big-bellies ag'in!"

But Peter went also, with his bow and arrows. Nobody objected. The captain led on for about one hundred steps, when his leg gave out and he almost fell.

"I can't travel," he gasped. "I'll return to the boat.