Generosity to the Foe
A blinding whirl of snow hid Steve and Mac from friends and foes alike
as they slid from the hummock and made for the back. There was not
a sound from their snow-shoes as they progressed, and only distant
shouts and whoops from the French and their Indians broke the silence
of the wintry day, those and the deep boom of the cannon which now
plied their iron shot more rapidly. For the gunners had found the
range, and though the snow made accurate aim totally out of the
question, yet they took pains not to lose the direction, and in the
next quarter of an hour half-a-dozen balls thudded into the hollow.
"The sooner we can put a stop to that the better," said Steve as he
halted at the bottom of the hillock. "Up to now we have had luck, but
a shot might hit a number of the men, and already the odds are great.
How far are we from the forest, Mac?"
"Sure, Oi've no idea, Cap'n. 'Tis mesilf as is scared wid the snow.
There's no sayin' where we are."
"There are the guns," answered Steve in a whisper, "and so long
as they continue to fire we shall have something to give us the
direction. I am sure we are making straight for the forest, and if my
calculations are right we should be amongst the trees in a very few
moments."
They slid along over the snow again, Steve leading the way. Then
a dull wall cut across the white ground in front of him, and with
a smothered exclamation of satisfaction he realized that they had
reached the friendly shelter of the forest. By then both were covered
with snow, and were with difficulty distinguishable at ten paces.
"We have everything in our favour," Steve whispered, halting for a
while. Now, I propose that we make round towards the guns and watch to
see how many are serving them. If few----"
"Sure we'll rush 'em," burst in Mac, his red beard trembling, so
greatly was he excited. "Give the word, sor, and bedad, 'tis mesilf as
will charge all alone. Them Frenchies'll never stand."
"Perhaps not. But we must make sure. We must drive them off and allow
sufficient time in which to spike the guns. Now, look here, Mac. If
we charge them, hold your fire whatever you do. Use the butt or your
tomahawk. If they bolt, then sit down and watch for their return. I
shall use my axe to drive in the spikes."
There was no need for further arrangement, and so they set off again,
this time turning sharp to their left in the direction of the guns.
For the cannon still bellowed at intervals, and on one occasion, when
the wind blew the whirling flakes aside for a moment, Steve saw the
flash distinctly. In a little while the two were bent almost double,
for they were within earshot, and presently they halted behind an
enormous oak, for the guns were in sight, half-a-dozen dim figures
working about them, sometimes in view and sometimes blotted out
altogether by the snow. But there were others there also. As Steve
and Mac stared at the place, endeavouring to make out the precise
surroundings, they became aware that other figures were silently
gathering, that the space behind the guns was being filled by a
company of blanketed men, from whose scalp locks fell a crest of
trailing feathers. The red and white and blue painted faces showed up
through the storm, and soon there could not be a doubt that the Indian
allies of the French were there. Suddenly a tall figure appeared
amongst them and a voice was heard.
"Your chief," said the French officer in his own tongue. "Good. You
can understand me and tell your friends. The snow falls heavily,
chief."
"It falls," was the response, in passable French.
"And hides us from these pale faces. Now is the time for Hurons to
strike with their tomahawks. Let them climb to the back of this
hummock and fall upon the pale faces from there. We who have just been
beaten back will attack from the front."
There was a minute or more of delay while the Huron chief turned to
his comrades. Then he swept round and faced the French officer.
"It is well," he said. "In a short while we shall be there. Will you
and your men crawl forward now and wait for our shouts. Then charge,
and it may happen that you will find us in possession and these men
all slain and scalped."
The officer nodded curtly, and then as Steve and Mac looked on, the
band of Indians tossed their blankets aside as formerly and went off
in single file. Steve was still gaping with astonishment and dismay as
the figure of the last disappeared in the forest.
"They are off to surprise the back of the fort," he whispered. "The
question now is, whether we ought to return so as to warn our friends,
or whether we should stay."
For a little while the two stared into each other's eyes, for the
dilemma was a genuine one, and a decision not to be easily arrived at.
Then Mac pushed his tangled moustache from his mouth, scattering the
tiny icicles which had gathered there.
"Warn 'em I Sure ye couldn't, me bhoy; thim Injuns'll be in position
long before we could get up to 'em. A trapper can't cover the ground
quicker than they, and ye may be sure that they'll slip along as
though the gintleman himsilf was behint 'em. The bhoys must look to
thimsilves. Be chanst they'll have set a watch for our return."
"Then we must leave it like that," answered Steve. "There are too many
about here just now, but already the French are moving off. Give them
a little while and we'll charge."
They crouched behind the friendly shelter of the oak and watched
as the minutes fled by. The French officer waited to see the last
of the Indians disappear, and then went off through the snow, his
feet splaying out in a manner which showed that he was unused to
snow-shoes. They heard his whistle and then the murmur of voices
growing fainter. Meanwhile the guns continued their thunder, though
the men who worked them could only have guessed at the position of the
trappers. Still they were cunning fellows, for they had taken care
to provide themselves with a signal which pointed always towards the
spot where the hollow lay. They had laid one of the long sponging rods
between two forked branches, bolstering up the leading end with lumps
of snow till the man who stood beside it had it pointing true. It was
a wise precaution which they had taken before the snow commenced to
fall, and now Steve watched as the direction was taken from it.
Five minutes later a man who was dressed as a trapper slipped up to
the men, spoke a few words, and was gone. Once more the guns belched
forth their flame and shot, and then to Steve's joy all but four of
the gunners threw off their mittens, snatched up the firelocks piled
near at hand, and went off after their friends.
"They have word that the attackers are nearly in position, and that
they are not to fire again for fear of hitting their friends,"
whispered Steve. "Now is the time, Mac. Not a shout, not a sound,
remember, till we have the guns. Ready? Then come along."
His axe was gripped in his hand now, while his musket was slung over
his shoulder. He slipped like a ghost from behind the oak, and slid
across the snow towards the guns. He was within four yards of them
when one of the four gunners who had remained, and who up till then
had been staring out into the snow, swung round, looked at him for
a moment, and then gave a cry of amazement. He seized one of the
sponging rods and whirled it above his head, while his comrades at
once drew their cutlasses.
"On them boys! Cut them down! There are only four!" shouted Steve, in
French. "Charge and we have got them!"
Whether or not the Frenchmen believed that there were more of the
trappers behind it would be difficult to state; but the man who had
first seen Steve and Mac started back at his words, and lowered his
rod. Then as Steve rushed in he swung it up again, whirled it round
once, and then struck a tremendous blow which lost all its force in
the snow. For Steve had had his eyes open, and, moreover, was as agile
as a cat, even with snow-shoes on his feet. He leaped to one side, and
then ran in, striking the gunner between the eyes with the shaft of
his weapon. Almost at the same instant a cutlass blade swished over
his head as a second gunner made a wild cut at him, and striking the
barrel of the musket swinging on his back, cut a deep grove into it.
"Ye baste!" shouted Mac, as he brought the butt of his musket against
the soldier's head. "Stand back will ye. Will ye dare to sthrike the
Cap'n. Ha! So ye're still there. Now, bedad, that's koind of ye, so
'tis."
The red-headed Irishman rushed at the third man with a bellow of
rage, lifting his musket as he ran. Then quick as a flash he swung
the ponderous weapon at the Frenchman, throwing it so truly that it
struck him full in the face and across the chest and sent him to the
ground with a thud which could be heard a dozen yards away. And there
he lay, the Irishman standing over him, his hair the one prominent
feature, for his cap had been jerked from his head. As for the other
Frenchman, he bolted as Steve ran to attack him, and was soon out of
sight. Our hero at once rushed to the nearest gun, slipped one of his
improvised spikes into the vent, and then drove it home with his axe
head. Meanwhile Mac had raced forward a few yards, and turning in the
direction of the hollow placed one of his capacious hands to his mouth:
"Boys! Jim!" he shouted with all the force of his lungs.
"Ahoy!" came back. "Is that the Cap'n?"
"It is. Boys, kape a watch on the back of the fort. The bastes are
wantin' to rush ye; and they're comin' up in front, too!"
There was a distant shout of thanks heard clearly through the frosty
air, and almost instantly a musket spoke. Then the whoops of the
Indians broke forth, while the French, who were attacking the front of
the hillock, joined in the chorus.
"Don't spoike the secind gun, sor," called out Mac, all of a sudden.
"Sure we'll turn it on the ruffians ef they come to attack us. Here's
powder, and, bedad, here's the bags of bullets with which they charge
the craturs."
The Irishman had seen service before, and doubtless he had had some
instruction in the loading of guns. He ran the sponge rod down the
muzzle of the one which had not yet been spiked, wiped it out, and
introduced a charge, while Steve poured a handful of powder over the
vent. In another minute they had depressed the sights, and our hero
stood beside the gun, panting after his exertions, and holding the
muzzle of a pistol taken from one of the Frenchmen across the vent.
Meanwhile the musket shot which had been fired from the neighbourhood
of the hummock where Steve's men lay had been followed by many sharp
reports, and by the din set up by the combatants. Sometimes the flash
of the powder could be seen, for the fall of snow was not so heavy
now as it had been. Dim figures could be discerned here and there,
and presently some dashed towards the guns; for the man who had run
for his life as Steve and Mac charged had returned with some comrades
determined on capturing the guns again. They arrived within sight of
the place to find all in readiness, and the instant they caught sight
of Steve, standing ready to receive them, they bolted back again, and
darting to the right till out of range of the weapon, went shouting
for their friends.
"Get that sponging rod under the edge of the sledge, Mac," sang out
Steve, a smile of confidence on his lips. "Ten chances to one they
will rush us from another direction, and we must be ready to slew the
gun round and fire. Yes. Here they come, this time from the right."
As quickly as possible the rod was thrust under the runner of the
sledge which carried the gun, and with a heave Mac slewed it round
till the muzzle pointed towards the spot from which the French were
coming. He dug it again into position, and then waited, ready to move
the sights still further if necessary.
"Jest a little lower wid the muzzle, sor," he sang out. "That's the
way. Give 'em the charge rhight in their faces, and thin, bedad, we'll
be for lavin'."
He stood on the tips of his moccasins peering into the distance, and
then shuffled a little to one side in his snow shoes, wrenching the
rod as he did so, and again slightly altering the aim of the gun.
Figures had sprung up again on the sudden, and some twenty Frenchmen
could be seen coming towards the gun as fast as the snow and their
shoes would allow them. A musket spoke sharply, a flash illuminated
the front of the enemy for an instant, and a heavy ball struck the
runner of the sledge, glanced from it and very neatly severed the
sling which held Steve's musket to his shoulders. Then came another
shot, crisp and clear, the missile clipping a bough above the heads
of the two gallant backwoodsmen standing beside the gun, and bringing
a cloud of frozen snow about their ears. It was time to fire. Steve
leaned over the breach, placed the pan of his flint lock close to the
vent and pulled the trigger. Then he and Mac turned, and after Steve
had driven his second spike home and so rendered the gun useless,
darted off into the forest unmindful of the shouts they left behind
them, knowing only that their use of the gun had resulted in terrible
loss to the enemy.
"They have no thought of pursuing us," gasped Steve, some minutes
later as they halted deep in the forest. "I think the discharge must
have worked havoc, and thoroughly upset them. Listen to the others.
Jim and the boys were just in time to catch the Indians, and I have a
shrewd idea that they have beaten off their attack. Can we help in any
way?"
"Hilp! Sure 'tis oursilves as will want hilp if them fellers catch a
sight af us. Cap'n, we'd best lie hid here till the fightin's over,
when we can follow the inimy and see that he returns home."
"And that he does not take his guns with him," exclaimed Steve. "After
all, they could very easily bore out the vents again if they took
them back to Ticonderoga, and then we might have them firing at us
again. Let us return a little way, Mac, till we get a good sight of
the weapons. With our muskets we should be able to keep the enemy away
from them. Lucky for me that I picked up one of the French muskets
when we left. Mine had a deep dent in the barrel, where that man's
cutlass struck it, and I doubt whether it was fit to be used."
They looked to the loading and the priming of their firearms, and then
turning away from their old tracks, for the enemy might even now be
following, they struck off on another trail which brought them in a
roundabout way to the guns. By now the snow had ceased to fall, so
that before very long they caught sight of the two cannon, standing
black against the white background beyond. Close to the runners of the
sledges on which they were mounted lay two of the gunners whom Steve
or Mac had struck down, while the third was sitting up on his elbow,
and engaged in wiping the blood from his eyes.
"Sure, 'tis sorra he'll be that he's aloive, so he will," said Mac,
indulging in a dry chuckle. "'Tis the Frinchman himsilf as will have a
head that's fit to burst. Sure the man's dizzy."
"And well he might be," answered Steve. "Poor fellow, your musket
gave him a hard blow, and there is no wonder if he does feel dizzy
and ill. Don't fire, Mac. The man is harmless, and we are not here to
injure such as he. Listen to that. Cheers!"
"Cheers it is, sor. Them's Jim and Pete and the ithers. Sure they've
beaten off the blackguards."
Wild shouts of triumph came across the snow-clad clearing and into
the forest, and there could not be a doubt but that they were those
of their comrades. Musket shots followed, and then cheer upon cheer,
while Steve fancied he could even distinguish Jim's voice. But
presently something else occupied his attention. Out of the tail of
his eye he caught sight of a figure flitting through the trees away on
his left.
"Hu-u-ush! Indians!" he whispered, pulling Mac by the sleeve of his
hunting shirt. "Down, or they will see us. They are returning from the
hillock."
"And would give all they have and a deal more, too, the bastes! if
they could take us with thim," answered the Irishman, dropping on
to his face behind a friendly tree and peering round at the enemy.
"They're makin' for the guns, sor. Will ye allow thim to carry the
weapons away?"
Steve gave an emphatic shake of his head.
"Indians or French are the same in this case, Mac. They are enemies.
If I can prevent it they shall not take the guns. But perhaps they
are only returning for their blankets. Count them. I fancy some have
fallen."
They lay full length in the snow and watched as the silent band of
discomfited Indians swept by them, gliding over the snow as if their
shoes were parts of themselves. But the men who now returned wore a
different appearance from those who had such a short while before
made through the forest to attack the back of the hillock. This band,
gliding so swiftly through the gaps between the trees in single file,
was composed of men who had met with deep disappointment, and showed
it. Their heads were bent. Some looked ashamed, while there was an
air of savage fury on more than one of the clear-cut faces. More than
ten of their original number were missing, while amongst the tall,
copper-coloured braves who now filed along on their way to the open,
were a dozen at least who had been wounded. There could be no doubt
that that was the case, for behind them they left the trace of their
snow-shoes and dark stains here and there which told their tale only
too truly.
"I was right. They are making for the guns so as to get their
blankets," whispered Steve. "Lucky for us that they did not come this
way, or stumble upon our trail. Even a beaten brave notes every mark
in the snow, and if even one suspected that we were here they would
turn and pounce upon us. Listen, Mac. If they or the French try to
take the guns, fire your piece and shout. Then move away to right or
left, loading as you go, and fire again. They will then think that
there are many of us."
A glance at the Irishman was sufficient to show that he had grasped
his leader's meaning. Steve saw him look to the priming of his musket,
and then slowly and cautiously get to his feet.
"They'll do what they can to help their friends," he said. "Look, if
ye plaze, sor. There's a French sodjer, and he's givin' thim an order."
A man had suddenly come into sight as Mac spoke, and Steve watched him
advance to meet the Indians, who were now engaged in recovering the
blankets which they had left beside the guns. He spoke to them, made
signs with his hands, and then snatched up one of the ropes which were
attached to the sledges. For a minute, perhaps, the Indians stared at
him, for this was a task which none of them cared to undertake. It
was not real fighting, and, therefore, perhaps derogatory to them.
However, a word from their chief set matters right, and in a little
while a dozen had harnessed themselves to the tackle.
Crack! Steve's musket sent a leaden messenger at the group, a
messenger which was no respecter of persons. It struck the muzzle of
the rearmost weapon, with a resounding clang, glanced from it and
passed through the calf of one of the Indians.
"Hit! One to you, sor," called out Mac. "Listen to the baste shoutin'.
Bedad, Mac here will thry himsilf."
He put his musket to his shoulder, while the group about the guns
suddenly divided. The shot had taken them utterly by surprise, for
they had no notion that the enemy was behind them. Halting where they
were, they looked at their chief, while the wounded man hastily tied a
strip of cloth about his leg.
"A shot from behind, my brothers," said their chief. "It is some
straggler who has been lying in the forest. We will return and slay
him." He dropped the tackle and without another look or word strode
off in the direction from which the bullet came. A dozen of his
comrades followed his example, and ere Mac had time to sight, the band
was clear of the guns, and already entering the forest.
Crack! For a second or two the smoke which had belched from the
weapon hid the Indians from view, but a gust blew it rapidly aside,
and when Steve looked there was the Indian chief lying full length in
the snow, while the braves who had turned from the guns to support
him stood dumbfounded, staring at his recumbent figure. For this was
hardly the kind of warfare which met with their approval. These fierce
Hurons, a portion of the so-called Christian Indians whom the French
had induced, to the number of many thousands in all, for many tribes
had come from Canada, to become their allies, were accustomed to fall
upon unsuspecting enemies and butcher them in their sleep if possible,
or at least before they had time to more than grasp a weapon. True,
these braves could fight and fight courageously, as they had proved
many a time; but they were little use when asked to assault a fort
or to attack an enemy in the open. Their forte was the tracking of
enemies in the forest, the stealthy following up of stragglers,
wood-cutters, and the small parties sent to shoot meat. It was in
expeditions of such a nature that they shone, for their backwoods
knowledge, their natural cunning and stealth, enabled them to creep
up without observation and wreak a fierce and terrible vengeance on a
foe fewer than themselves in number, and more often than not utterly
unsuspicious of danger. And here they were exposed in the open, a
thought that was hateful to every one, and being fired at by unseen
muskets aimed by men of whose presence they had had no notion.
As the chief fell they gathered about him with grunts of
consternation, which were increased to howls of anger as Steve lifted
his ponderous weapon again, sighted, and sent a bullet into their
midst. With one exception they turned tail and fled.
"Hold!" cried the brave who had kept his ground, a tall and
fine-looking Indian. "Are my brothers so easily scared? Will they
suffer a chief to be slain and not retaliate? Surely we are children,
for we run when but few men are there to fire at us. Follow, Hurons.
Let us take these men who have fired, and to-night they shall burn
over our fires while we watch them writhing."
It was a cheerful proposition for Steve and Mac to listen to, but one
at which every brave who heard picked up heart and courage. Why,
after all, should they retire from this field without prisoners,
without one or more of these pale faces on whom to wreak their
vengeance? Besides, they were not children. The very mention of such
a word, the scoffing tones of their comrades, were enough to rouse
them to desperation. They turned again, their war-whoops rang shrilly
through the forest, and in a moment a stream of the painted braves was
charging towards Steve and Mac.
"Take them coolly," said our hero, leaning his musket barrel in the
fork of a tree. "Are you ready? Then fire."
Their shots rang out in rapid succession, and two of the charging
braves threw up their hands and fell, laughing hideously, for no brave
worthy of the name could die with a groan on his lips. He must laugh
as if the pangs of death were nothing but an enjoyment.
"Now let us run," whispered Steve swiftly. "Perhaps our shots will
bring help from the hillock. If not, we have a start, and may be able
to get away. Throw your musket on one side and come along."
Tossing their weapons on to the snow, the two set off as fast as
their legs would carry them, their pace being improved by the very
fact of their having discarded their muskets, for the muskets then
in use weighed perhaps three times as much as the present magazine
rifle. Behind them came the Indian braves, in single file now, silent
as hounds on the trail, their eyes shining strangely and a look of
ferocity and rage on every face. Two hundred yards farther on Steve
turned for an instant. He and Mac had not increased their lead, but at
the same time they had not lost ground. The issue of this chase was
still in doubt, for he and the Irishman might still reach the hillock
before the Indians came up with them. On the other hand, a lucky shot
from one of the braves might bring the chase to an end very summarily.
As if to remind him of that fact, there was a sharp report behind,
a report which went reverberating through the forest, and a bullet
chipped a foot or more of frozen bark from a tree within a few inches
of the fugitives. A second later Steve caught a glimpse of a figure
some few yards in front of them. It was Jim, Hunting Jim, the fringe
of his shirt and leggings blowing in the wind.
"Jest keep on towards the hillock, Cap'n," he said swiftly as Steve
came abreast of him. "Yer know what's wanted. Draw them varmint into
this here trap."
There was no time for more. Steve and Mac held on their course,
darting over the frozen snow as if the danger were even greater. And
after them came the Indian band, their nostrils agape, their fingers
gripping the tomahawks which they hoped to use very shortly. But their
hopes were doomed to disappointment, for within a minute they had run
into the circle of trappers whom Jim had brought with him. There
was a shout, a musket spoke out sharply, and then with a cheer the
trappers threw themselves upon the braves.
"That war a find and no mistake," said Jim some ten minutes later
as Steve stood gasping beside him. "I reckon Injuns was never so
surprised in all their mortal lives, onless it was the fellers
way back there at the divide when we were on the trail from the
settlement. Waal, we wiped 'em out, and with what we killed before I
guess as they won't be so keen on comin' our way again. There's twenty
down at least, and half as many French. Boys, our Cap'n's given us a
bit o' fightin'."
There was a smothered cheer at that, while the men gathered round
their young leader.
"We must move again," said Steve sharply. "I thank you all for having
come just in the nick of time. And now let us be moving. I want some
of you to go down and see that the guns are not taken. If they are
there get to work at the tackles and pull the weapons back to the
hillock. We can draw the spikes with a little trouble, and then,
boys----"
"He's the lad fer us," sang out Pete. "He ain't thinkin' of givin' up
our fort, not even if five thousand of the Frenchies wants to come and
attack us. He's goin' to put in guns, so as he can fire back the iron
pills they've been sendin' us. Take it as done, Cap'n. Them guns'll be
in position afore the night comes."
"Then you will look to it," responded Steve, smiling as the men
crowded about him with another cheer. "Now there is other work. Jim,
take some of the men and follow the enemy as far as the lake. Mac and
I will return for our muskets and then scout round to make sure that
not an Indian or Frenchman is left."
The party of trappers separated into three small bands at once,
Steve watching Jim and Pete march their men away to carry out his
instructions. Then he and Mac returned on their old trails, this time
at a more reasonable pace, and having discovered their muskets dived
into the forest and scouted there so as to make sure that none of the
enemy were left. Now and again a far-off musket shot came to their
ears, as the rearguard of the retreating force fired at the trappers,
and on three or four occasions they came upon the dead bodies of
Frenchmen or Indians who had fallen. But for the shots there was
silence everywhere, the silence of the virgin forest, till a faint
sound came to Mac's ears.
"Sure, it's a groan, so 'tis," he whispered. "Listen to it, sor. It'll
be the ghost of one of them poor craturs."
The superstitious Irishman trembled, while beads of perspiration burst
out on his forehead despite the lowness of the temperature. He looked
scared, and turned appealingly to Steve.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the latter, emphatically. "Don't talk such
rubbish. It must be some injured man. Listen, and then we shall get
the direction."
[Illustration: STEVE AND MAC DISCOVER THE WOUNDED FRENCH OFFICER]
They stood still for some five minutes, and then at last the same
moaning sound came to their ears. Steve promptly turned to his right
and set off at a a rapid pace, Mac following with the same scared look
on his wrinkled features.
"Tracks of Indians," said Steve suddenly, as he came across the marks
of snow-shoes. "They were carrying a wounded man. Look at the spots of
blood. Keep your musket handy, Mac, and use it if there is need."
Some fifty yards farther on the two suddenly burst into a tiny
clearing, and discovered there the figure of a man, lying propped
against a tree, where he had undoubtedly dragged himself, as the marks
in the snow plainly showed. He turned as Steve came forward, and the
latter recognised him. It was the tall Frenchman who had commanded the
attacking party. He was pale and wan, and evidently in great pain.
"Monsieur, I am your prisoner," he said bravely. "I was hit in the
thigh, and I think my leg is broken. The Indians who were carrying me
tossed me aside for fear that I should delay them."
Mac and Steve were on their knees at once, tending to the wounded
officer. "We will make a litter and carry him out on to the lake,"
said Steve. "Find a dozen of the boys, Mac, and hurry. We must get
back before the night comes."
Half an hour later the gallant French officer was lying in a litter
constructed with the help of an Indian blanket and two stout poles,
and was being conveyed by four of Steve's trappers, a relay of men
following behind. Their muskets were slung across their shoulders,
while one of the hunters strode ahead with a white rag tied to his
ramrod. And so they passed through the forest and came to the lake,
where, a mile away, the retreating force could be seen.
"Fire a round and wave the flag," shouted Steve. "That will call their
attention."
A little later a dozen French soldiers returned, their arms also
slung, while a lieutenant was in command of the party.
"You are our prisoner, colonel," said Steve to the wounded officer,
"but we know that you are wounded, and will be better cared for by
your own friends. We release you on your oath that you will take no
further part in the war."
"Monsieur, I gladly give that promise, and call all here to witness
it," came the answer, while the poor fellow feebly pressed our hero's
hand. "Messieurs, you are brave and generous. I give you a thousand
thanks. To you, monsieur, I say that I am for ever indebted. If ever
you should be in need of help and I am present, call on Colonel St.
Arnould de Prossen. He will help you to the utmost of his ability."
The parties saluted, the French with formality, the trappers in their
own rough and ready manner. Then they turned from one another and
went on their different ways, the French overjoyed at such handsome
treatment, the trappers pleased to have been of service. As for Steve
he little thought that he would soon have need of French help. He
little dreamed that the time was near at hand when it would take the
influence of a man stronger even than Colonel de Prossen to save him
from death. He made back for the hillock, and that night there was no
prouder commander than he, for he and his men had come well out of
their first engagement.