he was recovering rapidly from the dizziness
caused by his fall. But the warrior's neck was broken, and he was stone
dead.

Henry, as his eyes cleared and his strength returned, looked down at the
Indian, a single glance being sufficient to tell what had happened. The
warrior could trouble him no more. He shook himself and felt carefully
of his limbs. He had been saved miraculously, and he breathed a little
prayer of thankfulness to the God of the white man, the Manitou of the
red man.

He did not like to look at the fallen warrior. He did not blame the
Wyandot for pursuing him. It was what his religion and training both had
taught him to do, and Henry was really his enemy. Moreover, he had made
a good fight, and the victor respected the vanquished.

It was his first impulse to plunge at once into the forest and hasten
away, but it got no further than an impulse, His was the greatest
victory that one could win. He had not only disposed of his foe; he had
gained much beside.

He climbed back up the hill and took the gun from the bushes where it
had fallen. He had expected a musket, or, at best, a short army rifle
bought at some far Northern British post, and his joy was great when he
found, instead, a beautiful Kentucky rifle with a long, slender barrel,
a silver-mounted piece of the finest make. He handled it with delight,
observing its fine points, and he was sure that it had been taken from
some slain countryman of his.

He recovered the knife, too, and then descended the hill again. He did
not like to touch the dead warrior, but it was no time for
squeamishness, and he took from him a horn, nearly full of powder, and a
pouch containing at least two hundred bullets to fit the rifle. He
looked for something else which he knew the Indian invariably
carried--flint and steel--and he found it in a pocket of his hunting
shirt. He transferred the flint and steel to his own pocket, put the
tomahawk in his belt beside the knife, and turned away, rifle on
shoulder.

He stood a few moments at the edge of the forest, listening. It seemed
to him that he heard a far, faint signal cry and then another in answer,
but the sound was so low, not above a whisper of the wind, that he was
not sure.

Whether a signal cry or not, he cared little. The last half hour had put
him through a wonderful transformation. Life once more flowed high in
every vein never higher. He, an unarmed fugitive whom even the timid
rabbits did not fear,