ing nothing.

"Patience!" whispered Bois-Rose, "the Indians are like the vultures, who
dare not attack a body until it begins to decay. We may look out for
them by-and-bye. Let us resume our position behind the reeds."

The hunters again quickly knelt down and continued to watch their
enemies.

Before long an Indian showed himself very cautiously, another then
joined him, and both approached with increasing confidence, followed by
others, until Bois-Rose counted ten in the moonlight.

"They will cross the river in file, I expect," said he. "Fabian, you
fire at the first, Pepe will aim at the centre, and I at the last but
one. In that way they cannot all attack together. It will be a
hand-to-hand struggle, but you, Fabian, while Pepe and I wait for them
knife in hand, shall load our rifles and pass them to us. By the memory
of your mother, I forbid you to fight with these wretches."

As the Canadian uttered these words, a tall Indian entered the river,
followed by nine others. All advanced with the utmost caution; they
might have been taken for the shades of warriors returned from the land
of spirits.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

THE BLACKBIRD.

Death seemed to the eyes of the Indians to reign over the island--for
the hunters held even their breath--and yet they advanced with the
utmost care.

The foremost man, who was the "Blackbird" himself, had reached a place
where the water began to be deep, as the last man was just leaving the
bank. But just as Fabian was about to take aim against the chief, to
the great regret of Pepe, the "Blackbird," either fearful of danger, or
because a ray of moonlight gleaming on the rifles told him his enemy
still lived dived suddenly under the water.

"Fire!" cried Bois-Rose, and immediately the last Indian of the file
fell to rise no more, and two others appeared struggling in the water,
and were quickly borne off by the stream. Pepe and Bois-Rose then threw
their rifles behind them as agreed upon, for Fabian to reload, while
they themselves stood upon the bank, knives in hand.

"The Apaches are still seven," shouted Bois-Rose, in a voice of thunder,
anxious to finish the struggle, and feeling all his hatred of the
Indians awakened within him, "will they dare to come and take the scalps
of the whites?"

But the disappearance of their chief and the death of their comrades had
disconcerted the Indians; they did not fly, but they remained undecided
and motionless, as bla